


The Archer-Thief

by symmetri



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Skyrim Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 00:17:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 48,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7779238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetri/pseuds/symmetri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton's original backstory and the MCU Avengers plot--but set in Skyrim during the Civil War questline!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape

First Seed, 4E 176

The bitter north wind howled through the frozen trees, sending shards of ice cascading from their brittle branches. The dark gray sky overhead threatened another blizzard that evening, a foreboding omen of a deathly cold rivaling only that of an ancient frost dragon's breath. Such was the winter of the Nords.

Two boys huddled against each other for warmth as they trudged down the slippery cobblestone road. Their tattered, soiled clothes did little to block the biting wind, and their pale skin had already taken on sickly tones of blue after long exposure to the unforgiving elements. The elder boy had his arm slung around his little brother, and threw worried glances over his right shoulder, back at the way from whence they'd come—for they were fugitives.

The shouts of the Riften guards still rang in their ears, even though it had been more than a week since they'd escaped Honorhall Orphanage and fled through the hold. Now they were halfway across Skyrim, and fatigue was sinking its teeth into their sore muscles.

“Bernt, how much farther?” the younger brother whined.

“Not long now,” Bernt replied, squinting against the beginnings of a flurry. “We're nearly through Hjaalmarch already.”

The grueling hours passed slowly, and the boys' misery only grew as the sky darkened. Soon the light snow had turned into a freezing rain. Strong gusts blew the stinging drops across the orphans' frostbitten faces until they had no choice but to hunker down in the lee of a large cairn by the side of the road, and wait out the winter gale.

The younger boy—Klyn, he was called—grasped his brother's arm tightly. “Why must we go to Solitude?” he asked through chattering teeth, biting his tongue in the process.

“Because there, no one from Riften will find us,” Bernt answered. “We can start over, don't you see?” But even he sounded halfhearted.

The storm subsided after a good two hours. Bernt roused Klyn from his uneasy slumber, and they took to the road once more—not without reluctance. They'd traversed the better part of Skyrim in a mere seven days, even with the painstaking detours to avoid bandit hideouts and villages where they might be recognized. Their journey progressed more quickly now that they were so far north, but they still had to keep an eye out for bears and wolves, and shelter themselves from the bitter winds blowing down from the Sea of Ghosts.

Just as dawn tinged the horizon a soft pink, the brothers heard the alarming sound of hooves clacking down the stone road behind them. They scrambled for a place to hide, but the thinning trees offered little cover and the snowy marshes beyond could very well be their undoing—one false step, and they would be stuck in the sludgy mire.

The approaching cart clattered on, drawing closer with each passing moment. Bernt tucked Klyn under his arm once more and commanded him to duck his head. Klyn was hopeless at lying, but Bernt was a strapping young man now; still short, yes, but with his round face and dark hair, the Nord boy could pass for a Breton if need be. Even so, Bernt prayed to the Eight that the cart-driver wouldn't stop to inspect the two small forms on the side of the road.

“Whoa, there!” a voice called, and a horse whinnied in response. The cart drew up next to the boys and slowed to a halt.

“Keep walking,” Bernt hissed to Klyn, who nodded fearfully and kept his head down.

“Oi! You two!” the cart driver yelled, hopping down from his perch.

Heart pounding, Bernt turned them around to face the man. He was a friendly-looking Nord, with bland features and fair coloring. He gave them a cheery smile, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

“Do you want a ride?” he offered kindly. “I don't know where you're headed, but I'm off to Dragon Bridge myself.”

The boys deliberated for a few moments, weighing the benefits of a restful cart ride against the risks of accepting help from a complete stranger. He could be in the slave trade for all they knew, or a thief masquerading as a farmer. Having spent six years in Riften, home of the Thieves Guild, the brothers knew very well that not all men were who they claimed to be.

Klyn's weary yawn settled the matter. “Alright,” Bernt allowed. “Thank you, sir.”

The farmer nodded and motioned for the boys to hop on his cart as he hoisted himself back onto the front seat. Bernt and Klyn climbed in, and shortly they were on their way to Dragon Bridge.

They reached the town in only a mere couple of hours, rather than the half-day it would have taken by foot. The villagers barely looked up from their daily routines as the cart passed by, all too used to seeing orphans by now. The Great War had only just ended, leaving many children without homes and families.

The cart driver halted his horse just in front of the lumber camp. He smiled fondly at the two boys behind him, having quickly taken to them despite their moody silence. He suspected they'd been through great hardship. Few hadn't.

“Don't suppose you're journeying toward Katla's farm, are you?” he asked kindly.

“Where's that?” Bernt asked, somewhat ashamed of his ignorance. They'd been born and raised on the border of Skyrim and Morrowind, and had never ventured north of Ivarstead before their parents had . . . well.

“Just outside Solitude,” the man replied.

“We're going to Solitude!” Klyn piped up in a desire to be helpful. “Would you take us?”

The cart driver chuckled. “It would be my genuine pleasure.”

“Divines bless you,” Bernt muttered reverently. He could barely believe their good fortune. Perhaps the gods were looking out for them, after all.

“I'll be making a short stop at the tavern before we leave,” the driver said. “Need a word with young Faida.”

The boys hopped off the cart and followed their companion to the Four Shields, where he generously bought them a tankard of mead and a small loaf of bread to share while he talked with the barkeep.

Bernt, of course, took the mead for himself and eagerly eavesdropped on the other patrons—namely farmers and vagrants traveling to the Reach, where some sort of rebellion had taken place. Klyn nibbled on the bread and fought to keep his heavy eyelids open; it was so tempting to doze off in the warmth of the tavern.

“But why fight in the militia?” a lumberman was asking the farmer next to him. “Why _voluntarily_ go and get yourself killed?”

“To tell you the truth, I couldn't care less about killing them Reachmen,” the other man answered, taking a swig of ale. “But to fight side-by-side with Ulfric Stormcloak . . . Aye, that's why I fight. The honor, and what he's promised in return.”

“And what's that?”

“A chance to stick it in those damned elves' faces,” he said, grinning wildly. “They can't keep us from worshipping Talos anymore if we retake the Reach. The Jarl's signed an agreement.”

The lumberman leaned forward in his seat, intrigued. Bernt inched closer, too; this was all so exciting—a far cry from the boring life he'd led back in Riften, being hired out by Grelod to work at the stinking fishery.

The cart driver tapped Bernt and the slumbering Klyn on their shoulders. “Time to go,” he said in a cheery tone. “Hope the mead's warmed you well enough. You were looking a bit blue there.”

“Yes, thanks,” Bernt murmured back, rousing his brother with a few rough shoves.

The trip to Katla's farm was short and pleasant, the weather warming considerably as they traveled along the northern stretch of the Karth River. The sun had broken through the heavy clouds overhead, melting the snowbanks on the sides of the road. Their bellies full and hopes high, Bernt and Klyn chattered away in the cart. The sounds of their talking and laughter were like music to the farmer's ears.

Eventually, the time came for them to part. The driver turned his cart on the road to the farm, and the brothers stood at the fork, waving goodbye.

 _There's still good in this world,_ Bernt realized as he led his brother up the steep slope toward the city of Solitude. _And we must fight for it with all of our strength._

“Do you think we'll see the High King?” Klyn asked eagerly as they made their way up the road. He was bouncing with excitement.

“I'm sure of it,” Bernt assured him, but his eyes were far away. The image of him fighting alongside a great warrior like that Ulfric Stormcloak character entered his mind.

The guards let the brothers into the city without a word, assuming them to be victims of the war. Klyn hopped up and down as the great gate groaned open. His mouth dropped at the sight of the city inside. He had never seen so many colorful flags or finely-dressed gentlefolk. Castle Dour towered in the distance, its battlements bustling with Imperial soldiers. He couldn't keep himself from beaming at the sight of his new home.

Even Bernt was impressed with the wealth Solitude boasted. As the headquarters of the Imperial Legion and the home of Skyrim's High King, he supposed that he shouldn't have expected anything less. _Klyn will do very well here,_ he thought as he watched his brother run about, exploring.

They passed shops, taverns, and an open-air marketplace before walking underneath a bridge leading to the famous windmill. Bernt had to take hold of Klyn to keep him from running up the hill to the castle, and quiet him as they passed the Hall of the Dead. Soon they stopped in front of a high building with elaborate stained glass windows and great stone arches.

“What is this place?” Klyn gasped, leaning back to look up at the top of the tower.

“This is the Bards College,” Bernt replied, swallowing hard. Now that the time had come, his nerves were beginning to fail him. Could he really go through with this? “Follow me,” he said gruffly, and pulled his brother inside.

The door clanged shut behind them as they stepped into a well-lit atrium. A high elf sat in an armchair, reading a dusty old book. He looked up with mild surprise as the two boys entered.

“May I help you?” he asked, shutting his book and standing up. He towered over the two Nord boys, looking down at them with curious interest.

“My name is Bernt, and this is my brother Klyn,” Bernt said. “We need a place to stay.”

“I'm sorry, my boy,” the elf replied, “but this is a college, not an inn. I suggest you try the Winking Skeever.”

By this time, Klyn had strayed from his brother's side and was inspecting the tomes on a nearby bookshelf. Bernt stepped closed to the Altmer and lowered his voice, glancing back at his brother. “We're not looking for somewhere temporary,” he explained. “We're orphans.”

“I regret to inform you that Honorhall Orphanage is in Riften, not Solitude,” the elf said, but not unkindly. “I can arrange for your transport there, if you'd like.”

“No!” Bernt protested loudly, but then spoke in a hushed voice once more. “I mean, no thank you. I'm just looking for a place for my brother. I was hoping he could join your school. Learn to sing, and all that.”

“I'm afraid we don't take children as students here,” the elf informed him with a sad, sympathetic expression.

“But couldn't you make an exception?” Bernt pleaded. “It would just be him, not me. He's a quick learner, and very obedient. He sang all the time at home.”

The elf deliberated, and then sighed. “And your parents? What happened to them, if you don't mind my asking?”

“They were murdered by a group of exiled mages while on the road,” Bernt answered curtly. “We stayed at Honorhall for six years before . . . um, leaving. Please, you _can't_ send Klyn back there!”

An older woman entered the room then, walking at a stately pace with her head held high. “Viarmo, are these new students?” she asked in a melodic voice.

“One, potentially,” the elf sighed, nervously plucking at his beard. “Although it's virtually unheard of to take a student so young . . .”  
“Give him to me,” the woman said graciously, turning to Bernt. “I'd be happy to teach you.”

“No, not me,” Bernt corrected her, and motioned to Klyn. “My brother.”

The woman appeared to sigh with relief. “Thank the gods,” she muttered. “They always start too old. Learning _any_ instrument past the age of ten—pure folly!”

Viarmo laughed. “I suppose Inge has taken to him, then,” he said, still chuckling. “Consider yourself lucky, boy.”

“Thank you so much, sir,” Bernt said fervently. “And madam,” he added.

Klyn had finished inspecting the bookshelf by now, and stood shyly in the corner until Bernt approached him. “Is this where we'll be staying?” he asked.

“Yes, you will,” Bernt managed to say past the lump in his throat. He had to leave quickly, or he knew he would never make it out of the College. And this was no place for him—he belonged fighting for his country, for his people.

He'd been thinking of joining the Legion for a while now, but after hearing about the brave deeds of Ulfric Stormcloak everywhere they'd gone, he now knew his path. He was meant to fight in the Reach and reclaim it rightfully for Skyrim.

Klyn frowned at Bernt's peculiar choice of words. “What do you mean?”

“You will have a great time here,” Bernt promised him, bending down to look his little brother in the eye. “They'll teach you to sing, and play instruments, and maybe you can become a bard yourself!”

“What about you?” he asked, still crinkling his little brow.

This would be the hardest part. “I belong elsewhere,” Bernt told him in a soft voice.

Klyn shook his head, sudden tears welling in his bright blue eyes. “No, no,” he cried. “You said we belong together!”

Bernt kissed him on the forehead. “Do well for yourself, little brother.”

“No!” Klyn wailed. “Bernt, don't leave! You said we . . . you said . . .!”

But Bernt had already left, leaving Klyn crying in the arms of Inge Six Fingers. He angrily brushed a tear from his cheek as he stalked away from the Bards College. He refused to look back. He couldn't, or he knew he would change his mind.

He was meant for a different path than his brother, but if the Divines were kind, perhaps someday their paths would cross again.

 


	2. New Students

Sun's Height, 4E 184 

“Again.”

Klyn rolled his eyes and stared down at the sheet of music before him. The marks were long since faded on the parchment, and he had to squint to focus the little black blobs of ink into actual notes. Even so, the music was written in a shaky, scrawling hand that was incredibly difficult to read. Inge wouldn't let anyone else retouch her sheets, though, preferring her students to suffer through her terrible handwriting.

Sighing, Klyn set his fingers in position on the lute and began to play. He hit the first few chords perfectly and managed the arpeggio well enough, but when it came to the beginning of the melody, he knew at the second trill that his tempo was off.

Sure enough, Inge started grumbling. “Wrong, wrong! This is a _beautiful_ piece, a classic written in the Third Era—not some Nordic drinking song!”

Klyn ceased playing and sighed again in exasperation. “Then what should I do differently when the markings tell me to quicken my fingers?” he demanded.

“Ignore them!”

He suppressed another loud sigh. Inge had just had a trying session with Aia again, no doubt. That girl drove everyone mad, save for Pantea—who was almost equally insufferable. Yet Klyn had to suffer for it.

Giraud Gemane, the Dean of History, walked through the practice space just then. “New students downstairs,” he announced lazily, “if anyone wants to go have a look.”

“And why should we?” Inge muttered, still distraught by Klyn's subpar performance.

“Who knows?” Giraud drawled. “Maybe you'll get another lute player. Or, if Pantea gets her way, a new flautist.”

Inge narrowed her eyes. “You're dismissed, Klyn,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Now go downstairs and see if there's anyone we can use— _if_ Viarmo even admits them, that is.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Klyn replied. “Thank you for the lesson.”

“Hmph.”

Klyn raced down the stairs of the College and hid behind one of the columns near the atrium to spy on the prospective students. Viarmo was meeting with them now, Pantea standing off to the side and preening, as usual.

The good-looking Breton standing before Viarmo was only five or six years older than Klyn, but the great Orc next to him must have been well into his third decade. The Breton carried himself with an air of confidence, but his blue eyes were shifty, flitting to and fro throughout the room. The Orc did all the talking, in a low, somewhat brusque tone. But despite Viarmo's natural hesitance, the Orsimer appeared to be winning him over.

“I apologize,” Viarmo was saying. “I'm afraid I hadn't heard of you before. But if you trained at the Imperial College, well, then you will be most welcome here.”

“Thank you,” the Orc replied. “We are wanderers at heart, but we might be able to spare a few months here at your College. You see, I've injured my vocal chords, and my friend here just had his lute stolen by bandits on the road to Solitude.”

“I'd be happy to lend you one,” Viarmo said graciously. “Now, I'll see about your rooms.” He looked over and spotted Klyn skulking about in the corner of the room. “Ah, Klyn—why don't you give these gentlemen a tour?”

Although he hated to be assigned to babysitting duty, Klyn couldn't help but feel excitement at the chance to learn more about these interesting strangers; they were not the usual sort that the Bards College attracted into its halls. He left his hiding spot and approached the potential students with caution.

“Name's Klyn,” he said bluntly, scuffing his shoes on the tiled floor. “Er, follow me.”

With minimal discussion, he led them through the library to the wing where the teachers slept, and then up the stairs to the top floor. There the group made a short circuit of the lecture and practice rooms before heading back down the staircase to the basement.

On their way down the stairs, Klyn listened to the Orc's hushed grumbles to his Breton companion. He heard snatches of “laying low” and “far enough East,” which was more than enough to arouse his suspicions. Although, if they really did travel—or whatever they actually did for a living, as the Orc clearly hadn't sung a note in his life—maybe they'd heard of the goings-on in the Reach. He longed for news of Bernt.

As one of the youngest students at the College, the teachers rarely let him leave Solitude, even to go on hunts for new songbooks or to attend arranged meetings with the Khajiit caravans. Word about the Markarth Incident had spread like wildfire when it occurred, but not much news aside from the death toll and the supposed brutality of Ulfric Stormcloak's soldiers reached Klyn's ears—until Castle Dour's Legionnaires marched for Markarth to restore order, that is. But the Imperials were very good at keeping secrets, and Klyn hadn't the faintest idea of how his brother had fared during the Incident and in its aftermath.

He didn't even know if Bernt was still alive.

So as he pointed out the kitchen and the students' quarters and showed them where their beds would be, he planned his query of these two dishonest strangers.

“And that's the entirety of the College,” Klyn said, barely stifling a yawn. He always hated giving tours. Then he cast his eyes to the stone floor, feigning shyness. “Now, before we return to Viarmo, um . . . I was wondering, since you're traveling bards and all, have you heard any news of Markarth after the Incident?” He looked up hopefully at the Breton.

The stranger narrowed his eyes. “Are you asking because I'm a Breton?”

“Gods, no,” Klyn stammered. “My brother went there to fight with the militia eight years ago, and I haven't heard from him since.”

“Hmm,” the Breton replied, but his eyes still glinted dangerously. “He's probably cowering in Windhelm by now, given the Legion chased Stormcloak out of town.”

Klyn tried not to look too surprised. Windhelm? If Bernt was done with fighting, he could have at least stopped by Soltitude to visit. He tried not to let his disappointment show.

“Is the tour over already?” the Orc chuckled in a dark tone. “The least you could do is show us around Solitude, eh, boy?”

Klyn nodded glumly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Breton shove the Orc's arm—even despite being a good two heads shorter than his fearsome companion. They were a strange pair, and obviously lying about being bards, but Klyn found himself growing to like them. At least, he liked the Breton.

So Klyn paraded them around Solitude, showing them the splendor of the Blue Palace, the marketplace and surrounding shops, even Castle Dour. He'd always enjoyed watching the soldiers practice in the stone courtyard. There was something invigorating about the thought of fighting for your life; maybe that's what had pushed Bernt to join the militia. If only he'd joined the Imperial Legion instead—then they could have stayed together in Solitude, and maybe even Klyn could have joined when he was old enough.

The Breton observed Klyn's distraction when they stopped at the side of the training yard. He pushed the boy's shoulder to get his attention. “You fight?” he asked.

Klyn shook his head. “Never in my life.”

A captain called out then. In response, the soldiers sheathed their weapons and began filing inside the barracks for a muster of some sort, leaving the courtyard empty and silent, save for a few guards patrolling the parapets.

The Breton and the Orc exchanged mischievous glances. “Shall we?” the Orc grunted.

“We shall,” the Breton said with a wide grin.

The Orc pulled a greatsword from its rack nearby and began swinging it expertly in his grip. He bared his tusks as he whacked the head clean off a straw practice dummy. Meanwhile, the Breton had grabbed a bow and a full quiver and began firing into the targets all the way across the courtyard. Klyn could already see that he'd made several bullseyes in only a dozen arrows.

But he couldn't just stand by while this happened. Surely the soldiers would come back and be furious with them—and blame him, the local, for all the trouble. He'd already gotten a good beating for tossing stones at birds a few months back. He'd never missed a bird, but the soldiers didn't care much for his aim and had chased him out anyway.

“Stop!” he hissed to the visitors. “The soldiers will come back!”

The Orc chuckled through his tusks. “And do what?” As if to prove his point, he cut a dummy clean in half.

Klyn gulped. He was right; these were no bards. Mercenaries, perhaps, maybe even exiled soldiers—but _not_ bards.

The Breton noticed his unease and sidled over to him. “Don't worry about it—Klyn, was it? Don't worry, Klyn,” he said, ruffling Klyn's hair as if he were an entire generation younger than him. “You haven't seen how fast we can disappear.” He winked.

“Who are you, exactly?” Klyn demanded.

The Breton tutted and playfully shoved the bow into Klyn's arms. “I'll only answer if you can hit one of those targets. That's a fair deal, wouldn't you say?”

Klyn stared down at the weapon in his hands. It reminded him somewhat of a lute, but that didn't negate the fact that he'd never shot an arrow before. Although it wasn't as if he had anything to lose by trying, except maybe some small amount of dignity.

So Klyn nocked an arrow and aimed at the target, pulling his elbow back parallel with the ground, as he'd seen the soldiers do. He took a deep breath, closed one eye, steadied his arm, and let the arrow fly.

The arrow stuck in the target. It wasn't a bullseye, but it was damn near one.

The Breton gaped at Klyn. “You little sneak!” he cried, blue eyes bright. “You _have_ fought—or at the very least practiced archery!”

“I swear to the Eight, I never touched a bow before in my life!” Klyn protested.

“All right, all right,” the Breton allowed. “I believe you. Just . . . take one more shot. I'm curious.” He had a hungry look on his face that was more than unnerving.

Klyn gulped and shot another arrow, trying to aim as straight as possible. It clattered off the courtyard wall, nowhere near any of the targets.

“Some beginner's luck, huh?” the Breton laughed, and shook Klyn's left hand, the one that wasn't holding the borrowed bow. “Well, a deal's a deal. Even if you might be playing me. The name's Cynric Endell. As you might have guessed, I am not a bard, and neither is my good friend over there. I met the Swordsman—that's his only name—in High Rock before . . . ah, well. You'll learn eventually.” Cynric Endell and the Swordsman. An interesting duo.

“But if you're not bards, what are you?” Klyn asked.

Cynric winked at Klyn. “We're wanderers, my friend. Let's leave it at that for now.” He motioned the Swordsman over. “Hey!”

“You beckoned?” the Swordsman grumbled, still wielding the greatsword.

“The kid has some potential,” Cynric said with an easy grin. “I always fancied getting myself an apprentice. Let's teach him the tools of the trade, shall we?”

The Orc chuckled and was about to reply when the sound of a great door creaking open startled the three of them. The Legion soldiers were coming back.

Cynric and the Swordsman tugged Klyn along with them, and they all ran from the courtyard. Klyn still had the bow, Cyrnic the arrows, and the Swordsman was lugging along that ridiculously large sword. Stealing from the Legion. It didn't seem right, but the rush Klyn was getting felt amazing.

“What trade is this, exactly?” Klyn asked, huffing slightly as they fled back to the College.

“Well, if you couldn't tell,” Cynric replied with a roll of his eyes and a cheeky grin, “we're thieves.”

And Klyn had never felt more alive.

 


	3. The Heist

Hearthfire, 4E 185

Klyn rolled his shoulder again and groaned as the bone popped. He'd thought his arm muscles had been sore from archery training earlier—that was _nothing_ compared to mountain climbing.

It had been more than a year since he first met Cynric and the Swordsman, and since then he'd learned to pick both locks and pockets, talk his way into any establishment, and silently sneak through the shadows. He felt more at home in The Fletcher than at the Bards College, and could out-shoot both Fihada, the owner, and the old Redguard who had been Fihada's mentor. On multiple occasions, Klyn had even given Cynric a run for his money. In return, he'd kept the thieves' cover and taught them to sing and play to the best of his ability.

Now they were setting up camp on an outcrop of some mountain just to the north of the local Orc stronghold, Mor Khazgur. Tonight they prayed to Nocturnal.

“Tell me the plan again,” Cynric said, tying a knot in the leather strips connecting the pieces of cloth and wood that would serve as their tent.

Klyn stifled a noisy sigh and ran through the plan for about the fourth time since they'd left Solitude. “Swordsman gives us the signal, you climb down the cliff into the stronghold, he watches your back as you pick the lock of the cellar and find that stash of gems, you both climb back up, and we're done.”

“And what do you do?”

“I stay here, keep watch on the rope and see if any of the Orcs are wandering about. And provide distraction if necessary to keep them from cutting said rope.”

“After all, you've got that eagle eye, hm?” Cynric laughed, and stepped away to let Klyn spread their furs under the tent.

“That I do,” Klyn mumbled. Gods, he was shivering. Just down the mountain the Orcs had a full farm still growing, but up here the ground was covered in snow. At least the night was clear; he could easily see the movement of the Orsimer bustling about their encampment below.

One Orc stood out from the rest—their visitor, “Urzol” from Hammerfell, who wore an enchanted greatsword on his back. One that Klyn knew for a fact had been “borrowed” from a bandit squatting in the wreck of the Orphan's Tear.

“How's our friend doing down there?” Cynric asked, looking over his shoulder as he unpacked their evening meal of horker loaf, goat cheese, and alto wine.

“Well, I believe,” Klyn replied, watching the Swordsman interact with his kin. “Although I'm not familiar with their customs.”

“As long as he is. Here.” Cynric handed Klyn the bottle of wine. “You'll need it if you expect to keep warm up here. No fire tonight.”

_And no sleep until we return to Solitude,_ Klyn thought with a grimace. It was nearly midnight now, and the Orcs' festivities—held in honor of their newfound friend—had just begun to die down. Hopefully the Swordsman wouldn't be too drunk to light the signal torch.

“They should all be sleeping within an hour or two,” Klyn reported to Cynric, and folded himself onto one of the furs. Cynric tossed him a chunk of horker loaf, and he bit into it. The tough, stringy meat was well-seasoned but a pain to chew, especially in this cold.

“Then we'll wait, and have a fine time doing so,” Cynric declared, popping a small chunk of cheese into his mouth.

Klyn nodded, and looked over the other side of the mountain, away from Mor Khazgur. The edge of Skyrim. Beyond that lay the land of Cynric's people. “You're close to home,” Klyn commented, with a nod in the direction of High Rock. “Ever miss it?”

“All the time,” Cynric sighed. “But I'm not going back. Half the city-states have guards still looking for me.”

“Cynric Endell, the infamous prison breaker.”

“Of course. At least, until that last job.”

Klyn took a swig of wine and passed the bottle back to his friend. “What kind was it? Breaking someone else out, or . . . the other thing?”

Cynric didn't answer until he'd had a long drink. He wiped a dribble of wine from his beard. “It was in Farrun, in the northern part of the country,” he began, his eyes downcast. “The winters there were just as bad as Skyrim's, if you can believe it. And for some reason, I thought I could break myself out of that prison. It's famous, you know. Supposedly the best-designed prison in all of Tamriel. And I was foolish, and young, and I thought I could do it so much better than all the other well-seasoned breakers who had failed.

“And, of course, I was wrong. I was supposed to escape and ki—ahem, _take care_ of this rival clan leader, and the guards caught me. I was put in solitary, and after that . . . the fight left me. I'm still a thief, through and through, but in that windowless cell, I swore to myself, as long as I lived, I wasn't going to prison again.” He stared off into the distance, as if he could see through the Druadach Mountains and into High Rock.

“Was the Swordsman in prison, too?” Klyn asked timidly. He'd never heard Cynric talk this much about his past before. It was . . . nice. Like they were actually good friends, not just partners in crime.

“My cellmate,” Cynric said, smiling as if he remembered a fond memory. “He came in there, roaring and ready to fight—public brawls and accidental decapitation is what got him in—and saw little old me, and just started laughing. I laughed too. I don't know why, but I did. And it was the first time I'd laughed in months.”

Klyn smiled down at his feet. Bernt used to make him laugh like a Daedric Prince had taken hold of him.

“What about you, kid?” Cynric asked, kicking him lightly with his boot. “Eighteen years old, and already you look like you've seen real shit.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Klyn said, ducking his head. “The woman who ran the orphanage treated us like slaves, but I always had my brother with me. Until he left me at the College and went off to fight.”

“You think he's still alive?”

“I hope so. And if . . .” Klyn gulped. “If he's not, then I'd like to know what happened, at least. If he died bravely, like he wanted to.”

Cynric nodded and cleared his throat. “Ol' Grelod, right? My friend Delvin tells me she's a downright bitch.”

“She was a real-life hagraven,” Klyn laughed.

Their laughter subsided into an easy silence. Klyn took the opportunity to stretch his sore muscles in between bites of supper and take a good look at the stronghold below. The Orcs were slowly wandering back into the longhouse, leaving just one guard standing at the front gate.

No one ever expected an attack—or an infiltration—from above.

“One guard,” Klyn muttered. “She's far away, won't see the rope as long as we're careful.”

“Good call. Let's get this all in place, shall we?”

Klyn tied their rope around a nearby pine tree, fastening it securely and throwing the other end over the edge of the cliff. Cynric double-checked his knots, and declared them worthy of a sailor. The Breton stuffed his lockpicks into his satchel and tied it tightly onto his back; they couldn't have their stolen goods falling out on the climb back up.

Meanwhile, Klyn unpacked his bow and quiver. He'd only brought iron arrows—flimsy and cheap, but perfect for a distraction. There was no way that three thieves, even with one of them being the Swordsman, could take on an entire family of Orcs. And if all went as it was supposed to, they wouldn't even have to try.

Shortly after Klyn and Cynric set everything up, a torch near the front of the settlement flared up, illuminating the Swordsman and the somewhat slighter figure of the female Orc standing guard at the stronghold's gate—the Swordsman's subtle way of saying, “Here's the guard.” Cynric immediately started rappelling down the rope. It would take some time for the Swordsman to excuse himself and meet him near the mine entrance, but it would take even longer for Cynric to pick his way down the sheer cliff.

Klyn watched the whole operation from his perch on the mountain, longbow in hand. The Swordsman was finally heading away from the guard, and Cynric was almost at the bottom of the cliff. Their timing couldn't have been more perfect. The rope went slack as Cynric jumped off.

It was a risky business, breaking into Mor Khazgur. Few dared to breach the home of the Orcs, and typically there wasn't much point to it, unless you wanted to steal crops or genuine Orcish weapons. But Cynric had heard tell through his infamous “network of friends” that the Orcs had gotten hold of something worthwhile, for once. And apparently it was his and the Swordsman's job to teach them to never do so again.

The night was dark, so Klyn could barely see Cynric and the Swordsman creeping back down the path towards the longhouse. But as long as the fully-illuminated guard didn't move from her post at the gate, the break-in would go as smoothly as a slaughterfish cutting through river water. And now all Klyn had to do was wait.

And wait some more.

He wouldn't have traded places with either of his partners for the world; keeping watch was what he was best at. Alone, silent, thinking, seeing. He enjoyed it. But gods, did it get boring.

He took another look at their progress. He could only see the Swordsman standing guard behind the longhouse; Cynric must have already picked his way inside the cellar. The shipment they were looking for was supposedly locked in some sort of cage, so he would have to break into there as well. Only then could they finally pack up their loot and get the hell out of here.

Then Klyn heard the howl.

It was close, close enough to raise the short blond hairs on the back of his neck. His eyes shot to the left—and there they were. Two white-and-gray ice wolves, prowling about, not forty feet away. And looking straight at him.

_Damn it, they must have smelled the horker meat,_ Klyn thought, readying his bow. _If they howl any more, it's sure to wake the Orcs._

He would have to deal with this, and quickly.

Klyn pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back and nocked it, pulling the string back until his right hand touched the side of his chin. He aimed directly between the eyes of the first ice wolf. The other would surely charge him, so he mentally prepared himself for what would be a bloody fight.

Then he loosed the bowstring.

The arrow hit the wolf spot-on, killing it instantly. Its companion took a moment to snarl, and then began its charge at Klyn. Which left him just enough time to nock another arrow and shoot. It hit the ice wolf in the shoulder, close enough to the neck that it would bleed out eventually, but for now it only served to further enrage the beast.

Hand-to-hand combat it was.

Klyn knocked the wolf's snapping jaws away with the back of his bow as he drew the steel dagger he kept on his belt. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. The wolf lunged at him again and he got in a good slice on its chest, pushing its teeth away from his face with his bow once more. The wolf cried in pain and jumped back, still growling.

He prayed to Akatosh that they weren't making enough noise to alert the guard below. Then he set another arrow and waited for the ice wolf to lunge. Lunge it did, going straight for his neck—a sure killing blow—and he shot the arrow straight into its heart.

The wolf fell at his feet, all bloody and, fortunately, quite dead. Klyn collapsed onto the bloodstained snow, breathing hard. On the bright side, he was no longer freezing cold.

He threw an exhausted glance back at Mor Khazgur. The guard had turned around, and was looking towards the mountain. Klyn ducked down just in case she'd taken some sort of potion to enhance her sight. He knew no guard who took their job that seriously, but you never knew with Orcs.

When he dared to peer over the edge of the cliff again, the Orc was slowly making her way down from her post to come investigate. And Cynric had just emerged from the cellar, the sack of stolen goods thrown over his shoulder. This was not good.

Klyn had no choice but to distract the guard. He licked his finger to test the wind—yes, it was just barely in his favor. He aimed an arrow away from the stronghold and into the sky, trying to find the right angle as quickly as he could . . . there. He released the string, and watched the arrow zoom away, hitting the current of wind overhead, just as he'd predicted. From there, it curved down, down, and began curving back in his direction—but far enough away that the Orc would surely notice it.

It stuck in the ground just behind the guard's feet. She jumped, and turned around with her sword drawn. If Klyn had shot it correctly, it was angled as if someone from outside the stronghold—in the opposite direction of the cliff—had just attacked.

The guard ran back to her post, searching the dark grounds outside the settlement for the offending archer, allowing Cynric and the Swordsman to make their way past the stronghold's torches unseen. They hurried up to the rope and began climbing back to Klyn.

Klyn tested the air again, but the direction of the wind was no good. A front must have been moving in, causing the currents to change just slightly. But that miniscule change was just enough that he couldn't pull off the same trick again. He would simply have to hope that his partners could climb the rope fast enough before the guard forgot about the arrow and decided to investigate the noise she'd heard earlier.

His partners in crime clambered up the rope. Something clinked in Cynric's pack below, and Klyn wondered just what exactly the Orcs had stashed in their cellar. Whatever it was, it had better be worth all this trouble.

He looked back to the guard, and seeing as she was still searching for an invisible intruder, began packing up the camp. He dismantled and folded the tent, packed the furs and food away into their packs, and shouldered as much as he could carry. They would have to find their way back down the mountain in total darkness, and needed as much of a head start as they could get if they were to escape the guard's notice and make it back to Solitude in time for morning classes.

Finally, Cynric and the Swordsman threw themselves onto the edge of the cliff, panting with exertion. Klyn let them rest and began drawing up the rope without complaint.

“Do you think the guard saw you?” he asked, wrapping the rope around his forearm.

“Doubt it,” Cynric gasped. “Got the goods, though. Much more than we expected, eh, Swordsman?”

The Swordsman grinned, and then grunted in surprise. “So that was the commotion,” he observed, nodding toward the wolf carcasses.

“Sorry,” Klyn muttered, untying the rope from around the tree.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Cynric replied. “You did a fine job of distracting that guard. And killing two ice wolves with barely a sound.”

Klyn flushed at the praise. “So, what did you get?”

“Take a look.”

Cynric opened the pack of loot and let Klyn peer inside. Aside from an array of expensive-looking potions, he saw a good amount of diamonds and emeralds—several flawless ones, if he identified them right. “By the Eight,” Klyn breathed. “How much will it fetch from a fence?”

“Oh, about . . . three thousand Septims,” Cynric crowed.

“Keep it down,” the Swordsman hissed. “It's time to move out.”

The three thieves slung their packs over their shoulders and left the frigid cliffside, Cynric and Klyn whispering excitedly about their prize. The Swordsman chuckled at their eagerness.

_A thousand Septims apiece,_ Klyn thought, and his eyes nearly glazed over at the idea of all that coin. _I could do anything I like with gold like that. Maybe even travel to Windhelm and see what's become of Bernt._

That morning, in music theory class with Viarmo, Klyn wanted nothing more than to go to bed and make up for the hours of sleep he lost on their late-night mission. But even getting yelled at by the headmaster of the College for dozing off was worth the riches it had brought him.

Something good would come of their victory, he was sure.

 


	4. Betrayal

Frostfall, 4E 185

Klyn bounced his knee in impatience. He couldn't concentrate on reading _Lost Legends_ for his song assignment, nor could he practice the lute for more than a few minutes at a time without his mind wandering and his fingers faltering. These days it was hard to think about anything other than the stash of jewels and potions that had recently been resting underneath the Swordsman's bed.

The Khajiit caravans had been bogged down by early frost troll activity, but the lack of snowfall had finally driven them back into their caves—or so Fihada told Klyn. Today was the day that one of the caravans arrived outside the city, the day Cynric finally exchanged their stolen goods for a very large purse of Septims. The caravans cared little about where the goods came from, as long as they were genuine enough to sell at a higher price to unsuspecting, foolish customers.

Klyn rose from his seat on the edge of his bed and decided to wander the halls of the College in an attempt to stave off the gnawing worry that something would go wrong. Perhaps Pantea would send him on an errand to fetch her a throat-soothing draught from Angeline's—even _that_ would be a welcome distraction at this point.

The College was unusually empty today. If Klyn recalled correctly, Viarmo and Inge were dining at the Blue Palace, and most of the students were either studying, on leave, or embarking on various tours of Haafingar, attempting to build their reputation as wandering bards. Cynric, of course, had left to meet with the caravan outside the city, which meant Klyn had barely anything to do.

_Maybe the Swordsman is around,_ he thought, climbing the stairs to the ground floor. _I've been meaning to ask him to teach me more about wielding a greatsword._

And upon entering the library, Klyn found his fellow thief speaking with Giraud Gemane. Or at least, he assumed they were speaking. Not wanting to interrupt, Klyn leaned against a pillar and waited for their conversation to end.

The Swordsman unfolded a burlap sack that had probably held potatoes not long ago. And then the Dean of History began taking silver goblets off one of the shelves and tossing them into the bag. Giraud, with whom Klyn had only ever been on good terms, and the Swordsman, one of his closest, if gruffest, friends, were stealing from the College.

Klyn was a thief himself, yes, but he would never steal from the people who took him in and raised him when no one else would. And Cynric would never dare to blow their cover like that, or betray the bards that had become their colleagues and family.

Klyn was so shocked by the sight that he let out an audible gasp. The Swordsman and Giraud immediately froze and whirled around to face him. Klyn had never seen Giraud look more angry, but the Swordsman only gave a low chuckle.

“This one's all right, Gemane,” he grumbled. He gave Klyn a nod and a wink. “We'll keep this between us, eh, Klyn?”

Klyn just smiled, nodded, and backed away, his mind racing. He ran up the stairs and into the lecture hall, where he sat down on a bench to think. Maybe he was mistaken. The Swordsman wouldn't put them all in jeopardy like that, not when they were so close to getting the gold they needed to leave Solitude behind them and begin a new life. Or at least that's what Klyn would do, given the chance. He had no idea what Cynric's plans were. But the Swordsman clearly meant to get them caught.

He deliberated. They were partners, so surely the burly Orc should have consulted him before stealing silver from the College. Unless he'd been doing so all this time, and reaping the profits without Klyn or Cynric. The thought made his blood boil.

And Klyn owed the past nine years of his life to Viarmo and Inge and Pantea. They would want to know if someone had stolen from them, and they would definitely want to know they had a traitor in their midst. And that it was Giraud Gemane, of all people.

Could Klyn really just turn his back on the Swordsman like that? He didn't know if he had it in him. He'd always been a little scared of the Orc and his fearsome greatsword. He didn't want to make an unnecessary enemy.

Then again, he'd caught them in the act. He knew the Swordsman trusted him to keep that little secret, but who knew what Giraud would do? Maybe the Dean feared that Klyn would try to blackmail him with the information, or want a cut of their profits. But . . . they'd always been friendly with each other. Klyn had trusted his teachers completely, at least until this moment.

_No,_ he decided. He couldn't just stand by and let this happen. Stealing from strangers was one thing. Stealing from family? If he let _this_ slide, what was to prevent him from slowly amending the rest of his moral code until he'd whittled it down to nothing at all? He would never forgive himself if that happened. He wasn't the most upstanding denizen of Skyrim, but by the Eight, he was trying to do his best with the little that he'd been given.

Having made up his mind, Klyn took a deep breath and headed back downstairs to await Viarmo's return from the Palace. He might burn some bridges this way, but he was willing to take that chance.

But as he descended the staircase he heard the sound of voices—Viarmo's among them. And Giraud's.

“You found all this under his bed?” Viarmo demanded.

“Just now, yes,” Giraud simpered.

“That must be where all our silver is disappearing to!”

“I was afraid of that, Viarmo. What shall we do with the boy?”

_The boy? That can only mean . . ._ Klyn's heart clenched. He ran the rest of the way down the stairs, but it was too late.

“He's expelled, of course,” Viarmo answered.

“Wait!” Klyn yelled, nearly running into the headmaster's turned back. “I didn't do it!”

Viarmo whipped around, furious. His golden eyes blazed with rage. “I took you in, didn't I?” he hissed. “And this is how you repay me? _Us?_ What will Inge think when she learns she's schooled a thief and a liar?”

“I didn't—”

But it was hopeless. Viarmo would never take Klyn's word over Giraud's. Giraud knew it, and gave Klyn a devilish smirk.

“Unless you want to spend the rest of your days in the Castle Dour dungeon,” Viarmo warned, “you had better take your things and leave Solitude. Forever. If I catch you poking around even in the marketplace, I'll have you arrested, do you understand me? Now go, before I call the guards.”

Klyn gave the traitorous Dean of History a venomous look before turning away to hide his tears of anger. As he scurried down to the basement to pack up his few belongings, he vowed to never forget this betrayal. And a small part of him wondered if this had been the Swordsman's idea all along.

It didn't matter now. All that mattered was that Klyn was without a home, again.

He left through the back entrance of the College, head hung like a beaten dog. He took one last look around the city that he'd called home for the past decade of his life, knowing that he would likely never see it again. No doubt Viarmo would tell the guards all about the young thief so they would look out for him. And the guards were such gossips—the news would probably reach Dragon Bridge by tomorrow morning.

_All of Skyrim will know what I've been accused of,_ he thought glumly as he slipped through the front gates behind an outgoing cart.

He trudged down the road towards Dragon Bridge. The sight of the small town off in the distance was a painful reminder of his arrival nine years ago, the day he last saw his brother. He had no hope of finding Bernt now.

“Klyn? Is that you?”

Klyn looked up from the cobblestones under his feet to find Cynric hurrying over to him. He must have just gotten back from the meeting with the caravan. Klyn didn't want Cynric to see him like this. As much as he hated to admit it, the sneaky Breton was everything he hoped to be.

“You're all packed up!” Cynric exclaimed. “Where are you going?”

“I've been expelled,” Klyn muttered glumly.

“What? I don't . . . I don't understand, did they—”

“The Swordsman's been stealing from the College!” Klyn snapped. His patience had worn thin. “Giraud Gemane was helping him, and told Viarmo that I did it. And now I'm banished from Solitude.”

Cynric's jaw dropped. “Those bastards, I'll shoot an arrow through Gemane's spine—”

“Just leave it.” Klyn began his weary way down the road once again.

“No, no,” Cynric said, pulling Klyn back by the shoulder. “I can't just let you leave like this. No offense, kid, but you won't make it a day out here.”

“I can defend myself!” Klyn fumed. “I still have my bow!”

“No, that's not what I meant,” Cynric said, rolling his eyes. “You need to leave Skyrim. It'll take the heat off of you. Trust me. I ran from High Rock and now nobody there can remember my name. Here.” He reached underneath his coat and pulled out a bulging coin purse. “Take the thousand Septims we promised you. You'll need it.”

Klyn eagerly accepted the coins and stuffed them into the opening of his knapsack. Things were starting to look slightly less hopeless, although he'd never set foot outside Skyrim in his life. And now he would have to do it entirely alone.

“I know the cart driver in Falkreath. Tell him you're a friend of mine and he'll take you all the way to Bruma.”

“Where's that?” Klyn asked.

“Cyrodiil. Just north of the Imperial City. You'll love it there, Klyn. Blend in, make a name for yourself. You'll do well with that bow, and with everything else you've learned. Pick some pockets for me, will you?” Cynric gave a weak chuckle. “And in a few years I'll send for you, bring you back home.”

Klyn bit his tongue in an effort to stop himself from asking, _Won't you come with me?_ Instead, he said, “What are you going to do? Will you stay with . . .”

Cynric clenched his jaw. “No. He's lost my trust,” he growled. “I have a friend in Riften. Delvin's his name. He's promised me a good job, and I'm going to take it.” He rattled the coin purse with a grim smile. “But right now, I have unfinished business.”

Klyn nodded brusquely. “Thank you for everything,” he murmured.

“I'm proud of you, kid,” Cynric replied, and then headed on his way.

Klyn watched the thief go with a heaviness in his heart. His life in Skyrim had ended, but now at least he had a slim chance at a new one. And he'd always wanted to visit the Imperial City as a child, hearing about its grandeur from travelers who'd stopped by at his parents' farm. He'd just imagined doing so in better circumstances.

He muttered a quick prayer to the Divines and left his home behind him.

 


	5. Return

“And who chose this lovely route again?” Sanna asked. “Hm? Care to answer?”

“I did,” Ulail sighed, stepping gingerly over a patch of brambles. “At least it's faster than going through Morrowind!”

Klyn grinned to himself. His two companions had been bickering the whole trip from the Imperial City. Rather than take the road through Bruma to Skyrim, Ulail had decided it would cut several days from their travel time if they took advantage of a pass in the Jerall Mountains. The Bosmer might have saved the trio a couple hours at most with the progress they were currently making, hacking their way down the other side of the mountain range through a dense forest populated by bears and frostbite spiders.

Already the wind was blowing colder, and Klyn felt his blood stir at the thought of finally returning home. Nords weren't meant for the warmer climate of Cyrodiil, but he stayed away from his homeland as long as he could, learning to live on his own and making a life for himself.

And had he lived! His skills with the bow had served him well, allowing him to carve out a place for himself as a mercenary. Sanna and Ulail were swords-for-hire that he'd met during his travels. Sometimes they worked together on a job for a particularly rich lord, other times they went solo as protectors and bodyguards in the different counties. It was always an interesting life.

Then a singular opportunity had arisen: security detail for a ship heading out to Solstheim. It left from Windhelm in a week. The coin was good and the journey promised unforgettable adventure. Sanna, being an Imperial, had a knack for business and sniffing out Septims. She'd secured the job for the three of them and then they were off without a second thought.

Which meant Klyn would return to Skyrim, if only for a little while.

“You're quiet today, Hawk,” Sanna remarked. “Something on your mind?”

“Just good to be going home,” he replied.

Klyn was well into his third decade now, but he still feared that he would be recognized by someone as the young thief he once was. He'd given it up now, but his fingers itched to pick just one more pocket. In the Imperial City, no one knew your name—so he'd chosen one for himself: Hawkeye. And once people saw what he could do with a bow, the aptly-chosen name stuck.

“There's a clearing up ahead,” Ulail called out. “I think we're on the right path.”

“What path?” Sanna said, rolling her eyes.

They emerged into the clearing, and found a cobblestone road just ahead of them. If Klyn remembered the region around Riften correctly, this one would lead them along the Treva River and eventually up to Windhelm.

“Look familiar, Nord?” Ulail said triumphantly.

“Aye. I'd say we have less than a day's walk ahead of us, friends,” Klyn announced. “Ulail, I have to admit, you did it. Shor's blood, I don't know how, but you did it.”

“Well, Hawk, you're our guide now,” Sanna told him. “Go forth, lead us unto our wealth.”

Klyn just laughed. He couldn't have picked two better companions to travel and fight with. Hopefully the rest of the journey to Windhelm would go smoothly.

It didn't, of course. The group was plagued by wolves, bandit patrols, and even more bears, but each difficulty was easily surmounted by the combined strength of the three mercenaries. Klyn picked off faraway beasts with his bow, Sanna charged into the fray with her mace, and Ulail struck the killing blow with his Cyrodiilic longsword. They were a fearsome group.

They'd passed Lake Geir long ago and were now following the Darkwater River north. Eventually it would merge with the White River, which would lead them straight to Windhelm. The Imperial Legion's helpful signposts didn't hurt their navigation, either.

Klyn knew very well that it was a near impossibility that his brother would still be in Windhelm. If he was still alive, he was no doubt at some militia outpost in the west, fighting the good fight against the Forsworn. Tales of the battles in the Reach had even made it to the Imperial City, and of course the entirety of Cyrodiil was buzzing with the talk of tension between the Legion and the Aldmeri Dominion. The Nords especially found the White-Gold Concordat constraining, what with their long-lasting devotion to Talos.

_What are we getting ourselves into?_ Klyn wondered with a shake of his head. At least the three of them wouldn't have to stay in Windhelm for long. Surely their ship would head out for Solstheim before they could get into any trouble.

A large fort now loomed in the distance. No doubt it was populated by bandits, or worse. The air blew a bitter scent.

“What's that awful smell?” Ulail asked, screwing up his pointy nose.

“I think I remember this place,” Klyn mused, and looked about him. He and Bernt must have passed through this area during their escape from Riften. Not much had changed—something he appreciated about Skyrim and its Nords. “We must be close to the swamplands.”

“That would explain the stench,” Sanna commented.

They came to a crossroads. Klyn had the same vague feeling that he'd been on this path before—it must have been twenty years ago, now. The sign on the Legion post pointing to Windhelm directed them to take the left path.

They shortly came to a bridge. All the details of his journey with Bernt were starting to come back to Klyn. Of course, he'd left Riften in the heart of winter, not the tail end of summer—so the trees looked different, and there were some fallen logs he hadn't seen before, but he was sure that he and his brother had come down this very road when they'd escaped from Honorhall Orphanage.

“Let's hope there aren't any trolls under this bridge,” Sanna said with a smirk as they began crossing the river.

“You used to live around here, didn't you, Hawkeye?” Ulail asked. “You said you grew up in Riften.”

“That I did,” Klyn replied. He'd never told anyone that he'd moved to Solitude and lived as a bard-in-training. That life was long behind him.

Sometimes he wondered about Cynric Endell, his old friend and mentor. The man who had promised once to bring him back to Skyrim when the coast was clear. That had never happened. It wasn't really the thief's fault; perhaps he'd sent word and something had happened to the courier, or Klyn hadn't been living where Cynric expected him to have been. The gods had decided that their paths should not cross again, and he would have to be content with that.

It was easier this way. He had drawn clear lines between the various stages of his life. Orphan to student to mercenary. He wondered what would come next.

The night sky blazed with color from the Nordic aurora. They'd been walking since noon, and had yet to stop for their evening meal.

“Looks like there's a little settlement up across that next bridge,” Ulail noted. “Seems pretty lively for a place like this. Good place to sit and eat, though.”

Exchanging shrugs, Klyn and Sanna followed Ulail toward the settlement. From the looks of it, there was a new mine in the area. But once they arrived, something felt off.

There was far too much activity for such a small place. Too many voices, too many torches lit. But Klyn barely had time to take it all in before a horn sounded and the small mining settlement erupted into total chaos.

Soldiers swarmed in from all sides, cutting off any hope of escape. Immediately the three mercenaries drew their weapons, marking them as hostile targets to what appeared to be an entire squadron of Imperial soldiers, proudly wearing silver and red. It was a downright ambush, and Klyn didn't know where to turn or who to fight.

“Hawkeye! Watch out!” Ulail yelled, but it was too late.

The last thing Klyn heard was Sanna's battlecry before he was knocked in the head by the butt of a soldier's sword. Then it all went black.

~

He came to slowly, vaguely aware of an uncomfortable rattling in his bones and a dull throbbing in the back of his head. Klyn blinked a couple times to clear the darkness from his eyes and found himself sitting in the back of a wagon, wrists tightly bound together. He had been taken as an Imperial prisoner.

He looked around at the other prisoners in his wagon. Ulail and Sanna were nowhere to be seen, although there was another cart not far behind them. Klyn noticed with some surprise that he sat with three other Nords.

“You're awake,” a brown-haired Nord snorted. “Imperial scum knocked you on the head, did they?”

“What's happening?” Klyn murmured, still somewhat in a daze. This all had come so . . . so suddenly.

“We're being taken to be executed, brother,” the blond Nord across from him said. “They have no other use for rebels.”

Klyn wanted to ask what kind of rebels, but then the soldier driving their wagon yelled, “Quiet back there, or you'll be the first lot on the chopping block!” They spent the rest of the ride in silence.

It was a foggy morning. Klyn didn't recognize this region of Skyrim, but he could see the Throat of the World towering in the distance at a different angle than he was used to. He guessed they were somewhere near Falkreath, the cemetery town. Which made sense if they were going to be executed.

“General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!” an Imperial soldier yelled in the distance just as they passed through the gate of some sort of village or keep. Imperial flags flew on every pole and black and red banners hung from every surface.

_At least I'll know who's killing me,_ Klyn thought wryly. The Legion had its way of making up crimes when they needed to do so.

“Good,” replied a white-haired man on a horse just inside the gate. “Let's get this over with.” He was flanked by several tough-looking Altmer on steeds of their own. Thalmor, no doubt. The group dismounted and walked away.

The sun cut through the fog then, illuminating the pleasant-looking town they were driving through. A young boy watched the procession eagerly from a porch. Klyn had to look away.

“Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?”

“You need to go inside, little cub,” the boy's father replied, and then they were out of earshot.

And there it was: the chopping block. Complete with a black-robed executioner and a priestess of Arkay muttering prayers under her breath. At least Klyn would have a chance at a good afterlife—although gods knew he wouldn't be living it in Sovngarde.

“Whoa!” the driver called out, pulling back on the reins of the horse as they approached the wall of the town.

Of all the ways Klyn imagined he could die, this was by far the least exciting out of all of them. Standing in line, waiting for his head to be chopped off? He could have done better than that. This was no warrior's death.

“Get these prisoners out of the carts. Move it!” a female soldier shouted. She wore a legate's armor, and had the stern expression of someone in charge.

The blond Nord across from Klyn gave him a solemn nod, and they all stood to obediently hop off the back of the cart and form a line. No doubt the Imperials wanted to catalogue their deaths in an orderly fashion. They kept everything well in order at Castle Dour; why wouldn't they do so here?

“Step towards the block when we call your name,” the legate ordered. “One at a time.”

Two soldiers positioned themselves in front of the line of prisoners. One held a large, leather-bound book and a dripping quill.

Klyn's fellow prisoners began stepping forward, nodding as the soldier in front of them announced their names in monotone. This was his chance to discover which crime he would be punished for.

But then he heard the soldier in charge of supervising the other line of prisoners say, “Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm,” and his mind went blank.

_Ulfric Stormcloak? That militia leader became Jarl?_ he thought, amazed. _I heard the rumors about a dissenting faction in Skyrim calling themselves by his name, but I never thought it was true!_

No wonder these soldiers were so keen to get on with the killing. They had the leader of a rebellion in their grasp. Too bad he would die before Klyn could ask him about Bernt.

It was Klyn's turn to step forward now, but a commotion in the other line caused a break in the order. A raggedly-dressed Nord had run away from the guards, yelling about his rights until an archer swiftly took care of him. Klyn was glad that young boy had gone inside.

The legate turned to the rest of the prisoners. “Anyone else feel like running?” she said, giving them a stony glare.

The soldier with the book frowned at the page in front of him, and then turned his glower to Klyn. “Why aren't you on the list?” he demanded.

“This one was out cold,” the other soldier replied. Klyn recognized him as the wagon driver.

“Name and place of residence,” the first soldier said with a deep sigh.

“Hawkeye of the Imperial City,” Klyn said, keeping his chin up high. There was no use lying anymore.

The driver raised an eyebrow. “I've heard of you,” he said, clenching his fists. “You've killed some of Cyrodiil's finest soldiers!”

So that was his crime. Klyn shrugged. “Just doing my job,” he said, and took his place to wait for execution.

And there stood Ulfric Stormcloak, just ahead of him. He was still wearing his fine clothes, gagged and bound. Were his words of inspiration really that powerful? He gave Klyn an appraising glance, and then turned back to face the tower in front of them. Clouds had begun to cover the sun; appropriate, given what was to come.

“Hawk!” a hushed voice hissed.

Klyn turned his head to find Sanna standing a few feet away from him. So she'd been caught, too. He could only assume that Ulail was now dead. Klyn bowed his head in anguish. So much for their bright future.

The general—General Tullius, Klyn recalled—took a step forward, giving the Jarl of Windhelm a proud look. “Ulfric Stormcloak,” he said, pacing back and forth. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

_Torygg is dead?_ Klyn thought, eyes wide. Now the gag in Ulfric's mouth made a lot more sense, although Klyn was still shaky on what this “Voice” power exactly was. His parents hadn't told them many Nordic legends growing up, preferring to stick to facts and logic—crop yields and the like.

Ulfric made a grunt in reply to the general.

“You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace,” Tullius announced.

The sky above trembled with an ominous, keening sound. Klyn looked up in shock. Was Skyrim plagued by cliff racers now?

“What was that?” someone asked.

General Tullius replied, “It's nothing. Carry on.”

_That'd be a way to go,_ Klyn thought with a grim smile, imagining himself fighting off a cliff racer with only his bare hands. Bare, bound hands.

The legate then ordered the priestess to begin the last rites. Klyn had heard these words spoken many times, for fallen comrades and slain enemies whose funerals he'd deigned to observe. He never thought he would hear his own last rites, though. It was a chilling experience.

A Stormcloak rebel interrupted her, though, crying, “For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with,” and _volunteered_ himself for the chopping block. Klyn suspected that being blessed by only eight of the Divines wasn't enough for this Nord.

Still, it meant that the archer wasn't the first one to go.

“As you wish,” the priestess snapped, stepping back. She ducked her head under her yellow hood in resentment as the unruly rebel went before the block.

“Come on, I haven't got all morning,” the Stormcloak growled impatiently. A soldier pushed him to his knees with her boot. “My ancestors are smiling at _me,_ Imperials. Can you say the same?” He bravely looked towards the executioner as the man raised his axe.

Klyn turned his head when the axe fell and the rebel's head rolled.

“You Imperial bastards!” one of the other Stormcloak soldiers shouted, but many of the watching villagers cheered at the headless body slumped on the ground before them.

“As fearless in death as he was in life,” a rebel to the other side of Klyn muttered fervently. The man had long golden hair and kind eyes. Klyn felt sorry for the poor man, stuck on the wrong side of the war.

“Next, the Imperial!” the legate shouted.

“No,” Klyn whispered, and turned to see a soldier shove Sanna forward. _Anyone but Sanna!_ “No!” Would the Legion really kill one of their own in cold blood?

Another roar sounded in the sky as Sanna gulped and timidly approached the block. She was terrified, Klyn could tell. But she put on a brave face and clenched her jaw, trying to look tough for the world one last time.

Klyn prayed to the Divines—all Nine, the Concordat be damned—that a miracle would occur and save them. He couldn't bear to watch one of his closest friends die, not like this.

They shoved her onto the block like an animal. The corpse of the fearless Nord hadn't even cooled, nor had they bothered to empty the basket containing his still-bleeding head. This was a disgrace.

As the executioner hefted his axe, someone gasped, “What in Oblivion is that?”

Klyn couldn't tear his eyes away from his friend. All he could see was the back of her head, her pale neck about to be severed. But someone screamed then, and he had no choice but to look up as the executioner raised the axe over his head. Because in the sky above Helgen, there was a sight that he would never be able to forget.

The gods had smiled upon them that day.

 


	6. Unbound

Last Seed, 4E 201

It was a goddamned dragon.

At first Klyn couldn't believe it. It was as if Akatosh himself had descended from the heavens to save Sanna from her death. But then it became clear that this creature was no god.

Everything was chaos. The Imperial soldiers scattered from their posts and tried fighting the thing with arrows, but it couldn't be harmed. It roared an ancient language in a rumbling, low voice, and suddenly the stormy sky was raining fire upon Helgen. Chunks of stone flew from the walls of the keep and the locals screamed in fear. The prisoners fled for their lives, Sanna and Klyn included.

The dragon, its scales black as night, roared again, and Klyn fell to the ground from the sheer force of its shout. He felt something sharp pinch against his left arm—a broken Imperial sword. He took it with his hand and twisted it so that it cut through his bindings, setting him free.

He couldn't tell where Sanna had disappeared to. Smoke billowed everywhere he looked. There were so many broken, bloody bodies on the ground that Klyn felt sick.

He turned to look behind him at the chopping block—and there stood Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion. His gag and bindings had disappeared, and he stood proud and tall as he faced the dragon. It almost looked as if they were having a conversation. Could he have called the beast here?

Klyn had no time to wonder, because then the dragon lifted itself into the air and began breathing fire at the soldiers that were attempting to defend the village.

He had to escape.

So he ran as fast as he could, ducking through burning buildings and twisting his way through throngs of panicked soldiers. They had a bigger problem on their hands than loose prisoners right now.

Eventually Klyn got pinned down just outside the keep within the town, right outside the stone wall. The dragon had perched itself atop it and was blowing its fiery breath at anyone who dared approach. The smell of burning flesh was inescapable, and Klyn had to take a moment to settle his stomach and calm his nerves.

He was in a foreign town, with no idea of how to escape this terrible monster. He would just have to find someone and follow their lead.

“Nord,” a deep voice said from behind him.

Klyn whipped around to find himself face-to-face with the Jarl of Windhelm.

But before he could say a word, Ulfric spoke three words to him in an ancient tongue: _“Hah . . . Mir . . . Dal!”_

Klyn furrowed his brow. What on earth was the man saying? And then Ulfric simply ran away, as if he had somewhere better to be.

_Must be crazy,_ Klyn thought.

The dragon left its perch on the wall, and Klyn saw his chance to run. He sprinted to the entrance of the keep and discovered the Stormcloak rebel with the long golden hair standing just outside.

“You! Come on, into the keep!” the rebel cried, and Klyn followed him inside.

The room they entered appeared to be a dead end, unless they could somehow open the gate blocking off the corridor to their right. The noise of the ongoing battle could still be heard through the thick walls of the keep.

“What's your name, Nord?” the soldier asked, going over to a corpse at the other end of the room. The body was dressed in unfamiliar armor, blue instead of red—a fallen comrade of his, perhaps.

“Hawkeye,” Klyn responded. “You?”

“Ralof, of Riverwood.” He bent over the body. “We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother.”

“You mind?” Klyn picked up the dead Stormcloak's iron war axe and hefted it in his hand. It would have to do as a weapon until he could find something better.

“Gunjar doesn't need it anymore,” Ralof replied. “I'm going to see if I can find some way out of here.” He inspected the gate. “Agh, this one's locked. Let's see about that gate.”

Klyn turned around to find another gate on the opposite side of the room. He shook his head. Usually he was quite observant; the coming of the dragon really must have taken a toll on him.

He wasn't as shaken as Ralof, though. The Nord probably had never left Skyrim in his life. But Klyn . . . Klyn had seen things. He'd been to Morrowind and High Rock, even ventured into Hammerfell once for a job. And nothing this dragon did to the Imperials had been worse than the horrors he'd witnessed the Thalmor deliver back in Cyrodiil.

“Damn. No way to open this from our side,” Ralof muttered.

Klyn looked back to the locked gate. If he had a lockpick, he could make short work of it, but he was unlikely to find one laying about in this hole of a keep.

There was a clattering from the other side of the gate. More soldiers.

“Those your men?” Klyn asked.

“Doesn't sound like it.”

Klyn nodded, and readied his war axe as the soldiers approached the gate. The Legion wouldn't hesitate to kill them, so he should be prepared to do the same.

Two Imperial soldiers burst through the gate. Ralof yelled, “Death to the Empire!” which Klyn thought was a little much, and then they made short work of the surprised Legionnaires.

Klyn searched one of the bodies, the flesh still warm. By the looks of her livery, she had been a captain of some sort. He fished out a key and slid the short Imperial sword from her scabbard. At least the blade was better than the axe. He showed Ralof the key.

“See if the key unlocks that door,” Ralof said, still patting down the other corpse.

Klyn nodded. The dragon's roars shook the keep. He half expected the walls to come down around them any minute.

He tried the key in the lock on the gate, and it opened with a rusty shriek of its hinges. “This way,” Klyn called back to Ralof. It looked like they would be companions for the time being.

“Right,” the Stormcloak said. “Let's get out of here before the dragon brings the whole tower down on our heads.”

They descended a winding staircase. The torches here were still lit; Klyn had no doubt that there would be more fighting up ahead; the place was swarming with Imperials.

“So, the dragon,” Klyn said, tossing Gunjar's bloodied axe behind him. “That's new, right?”

“Never believed they actually existed.” Ralof gave him a curious look. “Where are you from, Hawkeye?”

“The Imperial City. I'm, uh, new to Skyrim.”

“Welcome home, my friend.” Klyn had forgotten how proud Nords were of their homeland.

There was a loud roar, and then a sudden crash as the corridor caved in just a few yards ahead of where Klyn and Ralof were walking. They stumbled at the impact, nearly falling to the floor. Suddenly the threat of the tower falling seemed far more imminent.

Ralof let out a low whistle. “Damn, that dragon doesn't give up easy,” he commented.

Luckily, there appeared to be a way around the rubble through a wooden door to their left—but upon entering the room, they found themselves facing off with a group of Imperial soldiers scavenging healing potions from the keep's stash. The fight was over shortly. Klyn wasn't sure what kind of training Ulfric provided his soldiers with, but it was certainly more than fair.

“You're handy with that sword,” Ralof observed.

“Handier with a bow,” Klyn replied.

Ralof looked about them. “A storeroom. See if you can find any potions; we'll need them.”

Klyn found a few minor potions in a barrel, and handed a couple to Ralof. He looked down at the magicka potion in his hand and raised an eyebrow. He'd never bothered to learn any spells; sharpened metal had always seemed to work for him without any fancy enchantments. But that was when there weren't dragons wandering about. A mage would be a welcome friend in these times.

“Done?” Ralof called out from up ahead. “Let's get moving.”

_He likes to give orders, doesn't he?_ Klyn thought, but he didn't mind all that much. Just as long as the friendly Nord knew his place when it came to it.

They entered a torture room filled with soldiers who died quickly, another corpse of a Stormcloak, and some gold and lock picks that Klyn kept for himself. The picks would be especially useful if there were more locked gates ahead. They continued on through the keep, passing by a row of prison cells and hanging cages, into an underground tunnel, and then into a cavernous room where half a squadron of Imperials stood, likely waiting for their precious general.

This battle took longer than the others; Klyn and Ralof were far outnumbered, but the tides changed when Klyn picked up a simple wooden longbow from a fallen Imperial. He grinned widely, a dangerous glint entering his blue eyes. _Now_ he could properly fight. He took the rest of the soldiers out, one arrow a piece. One shot, one kill, as Cynric had always said.

“You really are handier with a bow,” Ralof said, mildly impressed. “Not what I'd expect from a fellow Nord, but appreciated all the same.”

“I'm glad,” Klyn said sarcastically, but judging by the Ralof's unaffected expression, the notion was lost on the other man.

They crossed a wooden bridge released by a nearby lever and into another cavern. Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the dripping rock overhead; they must have been getting close to reaching the exit. Another sudden blow struck by the dragon caused the tunnel behind them to collapse, trapping them in the cave.

“No going back that way, now,” Ralof muttered. “We'd better push on. The rest of them will have to find another way out.”

_The rest of who?_ Klyn wondered. There was little chance that any other prisoners had managed to survive that massacre. Sanna might have made it out—she was a tough little thing, that one—but she also might very well have been buried alive or burned to death. He didn't want to dwell on it.

They followed the winding path of a subterranean creek. The water was flowing swiftly; perhaps it would lead them out of this mess.

None of the Imperials had made it this far, it seemed. These tunnels belonged to the wildlife of Skyrim; Ralof and Klyn walked straight into a frostbite spider den. Klyn took care of them quickly, Ralof standing back and watching each arrow hit its mark. They continued on, sneaking past a slumbering bear and into a long tunnel. There was a bright light up ahead—they'd finally made it out!

The pair emerged on the side of a gently sloping mountain, only to see the black dragon's form flying off into the distance. Of course it was done with its rampage _just_ as Klyn had finally managed to escape. The gods had a twisted sense of humor.

“There he goes,” Ralof said grimly. “Looks like he's gone for good this time. No way to know if anyone else made it out alive, but this place is going to be swarming with Imperials soon enough. We'd better clear out of here.”

Klyn just nodded, following Ralof down the path in front of them.

But the Stormcloak was a talkative one. “My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood, just up the road. I'm sure she'd help you out.” Then he turned to Klyn with an apologetic expression. “It's probably best if we split up. Good luck. I wouldn't have made it without your help today.” He shook Klyn's hand, and then he set a brisk pace for himself down the path.

Klyn took this opportunity to finally breathe out a sigh of relief for the first time since the dragon had attacked. He was alive, he was in Skyrim, and he had no idea what to do. Continuing on to Windhelm to take the Solstheim job didn't seem right anymore, not without Ulail and Sanna. But returning to Cyrodiil knowing that the Legion wanted his head, well, that wasn't exactly the best plan, either.

Somehow, he couldn't stop thinking of how much he had missed his homeland. The trees, the air, the towering mountains and Nordic ruins in the distance . . . And he suddenly found himself wanting to visit Riften again. There wasn't a chance that Grelod would recognize him, not with how he had changed—if she was even still alive, that is.

But first, he would take Ralof's advice and stop by Riverwood. Maybe there he would learn more about the political turmoil in Skyrim . . . and the coming of the dragons.

Home had changed, indeed.

 


	7. Revenge

Last Seed, 4E 201

Not wishing to impose on Ralof's family, who had been kind enough to feed him and tell him of the major goings-on in Skyrim, Klyn stayed the night at Riverwood's inn, the Sleeping Giant. The next morning he set off bright and early with a pack full of provisions from Gerdur, setting his course for Riften.

The innkeeper had informed Klyn that Riverwood bordered the White River; all he had to do to get to Riften was follow the river until he came across a familiar crossroads. It would be a long journey, and he doubted he would reach Riften by nightfall, unless he didn't run into much trouble along the way. He knew of no inns on his path, so he would have to shelter in an empty cave or ask a miller for a place to stay overnight. But none of these troubles bothered him; he was going home.

Klyn crossed the bridge over the White River and followed the road north to Whiterun. The villagers of Riverwood had panicked about the dragon sighting, fretting about whether or not Whiterun would send aid. Surely the nearby city would take pity on the small town in their hold.

Following the river, Klyn saw Whiterun's walls in the distance. He had enough provisions to last him until Riften, so he saw no point in stopping there. Even that hold was too close to Solitude for his liking. Of course it had been near twenty years since he'd been falsely accused of stealing from the Bards College, but he didn't like to take unnecessary risks. In Cyrodiil, those kinds of risks got you killed.

He continued down the road for a while, and then nearly stopped in his tracks. Just ahead of him marched a small group of Imperial soldiers guarding a Stormcloak prisoner. As much as he owed Ralof for guiding him out of Helgen, he had sworn no allegiance to the rebel army. The prisoner was on his own.

Still, Klyn maintained a safe distance, sticking to the shadows of trees so the soldiers wouldn't spot him. He had no idea if he was a wanted man or not. Had his name reached the ears of Castle Dour? Or had the soldiers at Helgen just wanted an excuse to sever his head from his body?

He followed the soldiers down the road until they turned towards Whiterun. Klyn now stood at a crossroads. To his left lay Whiterun, and closer by, some sort of farm or meadery. Ahead lay more of Whiterun Hold's golden plains. And to his right towered the Throat of the World; if he skirted the base of the mountain, he should end up on the side of Riften. So the right road it was.

Shortly after crossing a bridge and climbing a hill, Klyn came across a lone wolf, ears back and snarling. Without a pack behind it, one iron arrow was more than enough to subdue it. Klyn walked over to the body and pulled his arrow out of the wolf's head. He cleaned the blood off by wiping it against the grass on the ground, and then stuck it back in his quiver. Klyn was nothing if not practical.

Across the river, Whiterun's walls stood proud; the city could surely be seen for miles. Klyn had little time to admire the view, however; the sun was approaching its highest point, and he wanted to make good headway.

Unfortunately, his progress was slowed by three pit wolves. He dispatched them one by one, and then found the shredded body of a dark elf lying by the side of the road. Dunmer were supposedly abundant in Skyrim; it was the dark elves' safe haven of choice since the Red Mountain had erupted. Klyn searched the pockets of the elf for anything useful, finding only a note identifying him as a Cragslane bouncer.

Klyn remembered the people of Riften mentioning Cragslane as a place of ill repute, some sort of bar or gambling den or another. Apparently now they were hosting fights between wolves. Klyn detested the thought of it.

After leaving the body behind, Klyn passed a signpost on a hill; he was definitely on the right way to Riften. Cairns and ancient ruins littered the sides of the ancient road, reminding him of just how old the Nords were as a race. The Imperial City had relics of its own, but it had been remodeled so many times that it simply lacked the authentic atmosphere Klyn had missed so dearly. People said Nords could never truly be happy anywhere other than the North of Tamriel, but Klyn had dismissed the saying as just that. But now, he was beginning to consider whether or not it was actually true—for even though he'd lost Sanna and Ulail, and almost his head, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest since he'd set foot in his homeland again.

He was so lost in thought that he startled a small herd of deer off the road without even noticing. Klyn shook himself back into reality, and then looked ahead on the road. There was some sort of bridge in the distance spanning the width of the White River, with two tall towers on either side. He was unfamiliar with Whiterun Hold, so he approached the towers with caution.

At the base of the tower on his side of the river, a female bandit wearing poorly-made hide armor stepped forward, sword drawn. “Hold it,” she ordered Klyn. “This is a toll road, you see? You're going to have to pay, say, two hundred gold to pass through.”

Klyn didn't want any trouble, but he barely had a hundred gold pieces on him—a very generous gift from Gerdur back in Riverwood. The Imperials had taken everything from his pockets, leaving him only his leather armor—although they'd seen fit to take his customary helmet, as well.

“How about fifty gold?” Klyn offered, giving her a winning smile.

She shifted her stance. “Eh, fine,” she said with a snort. “I can tell you're not worth the trouble. Just get out of here before I change my mind.”

Klyn poured the gold into her outstretched hand and then took his leave. Although he wasn't happy about losing half of his money, it was better than spending a few hours of daylight fighting every bandit in those towers.

As he made his way down the road, it began to drizzle. Luckily, this region of Skyrim was more forested than the open plains of Whiterun. Klyn much preferred this area, where he had the chance to sneak up on his enemies before they spotted him. There wasn't much finesse to fighting in a wide, flat field.

The road wound to follow the sharp bend of the White River. Klyn spotted a frostbite spider across the water, and took it down with one shot. He crossed another bridge and looked up wearily at the sky; the clouds were beginning to rumble with thunder, and he didn't want to have to wait out the storm in a ruin.

It must have been just after noon when he finally saw another person on the road. She looked the mercenary type, and they exchanged acknowledging nods as they passed each other. Other than that, though, the only living things Klyn saw around were either vicious wolves before he killed them or harmless foxes scampering about.

The area was slowly becoming more familiar to Klyn. He passed another signpost pointing to both Riften and Ivarstead, and he was reminded with a pang in his heart of his parents' death. It must have been somewhere around here.

Soon Klyn could see a fort looming in the distance. Faded, tattered flags hung from its walls; Klyn couldn't tell who it belonged to. He then met two Stormcloak soldiers walking along the road, and asked them about the fort. The Stormcloaks exchanged uneasy looks when he mentioned it.

“That's Fort Amol,” one said. “You'd best avoid it.”

“Bandits?” Klyn asked.

“Worse,” the soldier replied. “Mages of the worst kind. They killed an entire squadron of our men when we tried to reclaim it for the war. Word is they banded together when the College of Winterhold cast them out.”

Klyn's heart thudded painfully in his chest. Exiled mages. Living in the Rift. In the place where his parents were murdered. This was no coincidence.

The rain poured down as Klyn abandoned the road, drawing his bow.

Someone stood atop the parapet over the front entrance to the fort. He aimed and fired, killing them instantly. He didn't care who it was; they would pay for what they'd done.

Immediately another mage charged out of the fort, a lightning spell crackling in his hands. Klyn dodged a bolt of the magic and shot an arrow straight into the mage's heart. The mage staggered and feebly attempted to cast another spell before tumbling to the ground.

Klyn felt the blood roaring in his ears, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He was finally able to avenge his parents, and by Ysmir, he would do it with pleasure.

He charged into the fort and was taken aback by its emptiness. Stormcloak bodies and burnt corpses littered the grounds—no doubt the mages required sacrifices for their arcane arts. But there was movement on the other side of the fort; a Breton standing next to an alchemy lab rushed forward, discharging spikes of ice directly at Klyn.

Klyn sidestepped her attacks and shot an arrow in her thigh. She doubled over in pain and he took the opportunity to strike her in the head with the back of his bow. The mage fell to the ground, unconscious. Klyn gave the wound in her leg a good look; it was likely she'd bleed out by the time she could have come back to her senses. He searched the folds of her robe and found a few gold pieces and a short steel dagger, both of which he gladly took for himself.

There appeared to be no one else here, but looks could be deceiving. Klyn climbed the barracks and scaled the stairs of one of the fort's towers to get a good view; from there, he saw a shadowed figure and several candles sputtering on top of the other tower. He took aim, fired, and watched with grim satisfaction as the figure crumpled. There would be no more unsanctioned rituals in Fort Amol.

Now Klyn could focus on clearing out the rest of the fort in relative peace. There were sure to be more mages inside, what with the bad weather, but the thunder would have drowned out the noise of any struggle. He opened the first door he saw, finding it to be unlocked.

He faced two more startled mages. The man in front of him looked as if he'd just been enjoying his lunch; Klyn silenced him with an arrow to the forehead. Unfortunately, that shot allowed the other mage to cast some sort of ward on herself, making her less susceptible to the simple piercing of an arrow.

She cast a frost spell at Klyn, which hit him directly in the legs. He felt an icy chill spread through his flesh and hit his bone, making it difficult to move. So he didn't—instead he pulled out the dagger he'd taken from her fellow mage and threw it with amazing accuracy at her heart. It did not hit her magicked flesh, but it broke the ward and caused her to stumble for but a moment. That was all the time Klyn needed to draw another arrow and let it fly, striking her in the throat.

Klyn shook off the rest of the frost in his legs, glad that the spell's effects wore off quickly. Then he made his way down the stairs at the end of the long room to what appeared to be the fort's prison.

No other mages stood guard in this building, and Klyn only found empty cages—no prisoners to free—and a few strange-looking violet gems that he would rather not mess with. Even so, he decided to do a thorough search; he needed all the gold he could get if he wanted to make his way in Riften.

He found a lantern resting in a bucket in the corner of the main room, but its hinges were broken. Useless. But underneath it lay an old book, its leather binding dyed purple. Intrigued, Klyn opened it to the first page and rested his palm upon the ancient words written upon the parchment—and then felt a tingling sensation spread up into his arm, prickling through his blood. There was a flash of violet light, and then the book disintegrated in his hands, turning to powder that slipped through his fingers.

_Damn spellbooks,_ Klyn thought, clenching his right fist. A rune slowly faded into existence on the back of his hand, and then disappeared. At least its mark would not forever stain his skin.

Although he generally detested magic, as it had been the cause of his parents' deaths, he had to admit that he was curious as to what he could now do. Mages generally were learned in ancient languages and would have known what spell they had just absorbed, but he did not. Ulail had experimented with a few minor healing spells once, so Klyn was familiar with the act of summoning the magic itself.

Klyn curled his right hand into a claw, watching with horror and fascination as a tight ball of glowing purple light appeared, hovering just above his palm. He threw the physical spell up into the air, and, to his surprise, it instantaneously transformed into a ghostly bow. He caught the ghostly weapon easily. Klyn peered over his shoulder and found a matching sheath of arrows on his back. He inspected the bow and could feel its power thrumming in his hand. He had heard of a mage in Chorrol who could summon weapons at will, and called this spell the “bound bow.” The name was fitting.

And Klyn had to admit, if he had to use one spell, this would be the one. He fired an arrow to test out its strength, and it sank its tip deep into the stone wall in front of him. This spell was far superior to any iron arrows or long bow, both of which promptly dropped. Then he threw the ethereal bow to the ground to disperse the spell, and continued scouring the prison for loot.

Finding not much else worthwhile, he left the prison and then entered the fort proper. A single mage stood at a table, shaping magic around a weapon to enchant it. Klyn summoned the bound bow once more, but the casting of the spell made a sharp noise and alerted the mage to his presence. He killed her before she was able to cast any spell of her own, but she cried out before he silenced her forever.

Hurried footsteps sounded to his right. Klyn readied another shot and took out one of the mages running down the staircase, but the other cast a violent flurry of flames that he barely managed to avoid. Klyn shot a bound arrow into his chest, but the mage kept on coming, shooting fearsome firebolts out of his hands. Three more arrows and Klyn was starting to wonder if this elf was invincible, but he finally sunk to his knees and his eyes went blank as he slumped to the ground.

Klyn leaned back against a wall and took a moment to catch his breath. He was done. He had killed them all. Would his parents in Aetherius be proud of him? Or would they be horrified by the killer he had become?

He felt the fight ebb out of him even as the bound bow disintegrated. He had avenged his parents in the Nordic way. He seriously doubted these would be the last people he ever killed, but the urgency to fight and be fought had now dissipated. He could live life a little better now with that one loose end tied up.

Of course, he still didn't know what had become of his brother, or how his friends at the Bards College fared, but he supposed he would have to learn to live with those questions unanswered.

Klyn weathered out the rest of the storm within the fort, eating a decent afternoon meal in front of the still-burning hearth. He cooked himself a nice stew in the cooking pot and ate in peace.

When he left the now-deserted Fort Amol, the rain had stopped and a thick mist had taken its place in the murky air. He resumed his journey down the main road, crossing a bridge over a great waterfall that looked quite familiar to him. He was getting close to Riften now.

Not half an hour later, Klyn came across another bridge that he recognized as the one leading to the mining settlement where they'd been ambushed by the Legion. On a whim, he decided to investigate the settlement; maybe, just _maybe,_ Ulail had managed to escape, after all. It was only two days later, so there could be a very small chance that he still might be hiding out nearby.

He crossed the bridge and followed the dirt path to the settlement. A miner squatted by a campfire in the center of a ring of tents, while a couple of Stormcloak soldiers stood guard outside the mine entrance and the log cabin next to the small farm. Klyn was surprised to say the least; Ulfric must have had the area locked down since his capture, which meant that he must have escaped to Windhelm quite speedily after the dragon attacked Helgen.

Klyn approached the sole miner. “Hello,” he said, giving the man a friendly smile. “I'm just passing through; mind if I rest here for a short time?”

The miner looked up and nodded. “Be my guest,” he replied. “Name's Verner.”

“Hawkeye.”

“Pleasure.” They sat in silence for a few moments before Verner spoke again. “Forgive me, but my memory's a mite shabby. Have we met before?”

Klyn grimaced. “I was here just the other night, actually,” he said. “Got hit hard on the head by a soldier.”

“Ah, the ambush,” Verner said, clucking his tongue. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, my friend.”

“I was traveling with a wood elf. Do you know what became of him?”

“Afraid not. Probably captured by the Legion.” Verner spat on the ground in disgust. “Did they let you go?”

“Something like that,” Klyn muttered, and then changed the subject. “Why ambush a mining settlement, though?”

“To confront Ulfric Stormcloak himself,” Verner said with a wink, as if he were telling Klyn a juicy secret. “The Imperials took over Darkwater Crossing and sent one of their spies to Windhelm, disguised as a Stormcloak soldier. I was in the mines when they explained it to us, but my wife, Anneke, heard everything. The spy was to bring word that a Stormcloak patrol had captured the head of the Legion, General Tullius, and were holding him here. Said that the General was checking up on corundum production for the Legion's steel-making.”

“So they captured Ulfric here?” Klyn asked. The plan sounded just complicated enough to have worked; no wonder the Imperial soldiers had captured the three mercenaries with Ulfric—they could have easily been mistaken as his entourage.

“Aye,” Verner sighed. “The Jarl gave himself up without a fight to spare the miners' lives. _He_ should be our High King.”

“Who _is_ the High King now?”

“Jarl Elisif of Solitude,” the miner replied with a deep frown on his face. “The woman has no backbone, follows the Thalmor's orders like a dog. She is no _true_ Nord of Skyrim.”

Klyn hadn't come here to talk politics. He'd learned what he wanted to know. Standing, he thanked Verner for the conversation and continued on his way.

The clouds slowly cleared from the sky after Klyn left Darkwater Crossing. He knew the way back to Riften by heart now; he crossed yet another bridge over an impressive set of waterfalls that Sanna had admired on their way from Cyrodiil. He wondered again if she had survived the dragon attack, and if Ulail had escaped the ambush. He doubted he would ever see his two friends again, but it would have been nice to know their fates.

The road sloped up to meet the mountains, and Klyn saw goats frolicking about up ahead. Going up the mountain was certainly much harder than when they had descended it a few days ago. Klyn stopped at an overlook of the swamplands, watching a lone giant trundle along, hefting a log-like club. Ulail probably wouldn't have been able to contain his excitement if he had been here.

Klyn came to another crossroads. Rather than follow the route they took from Cyrodiil, he took the other fork; he knew from experience that he would get to Riften faster this way, by skirting around the base of Northwind Mountain and traveling directly through Shor's Stone. And this way, if he had to, he could stay the night in the small village.

After a good hour of walking at a steady pace, Klyn saw another figure on the road up ahead. He wore no armor and carried no weapon, but his clothes were too fine to be those of a farmer. Klyn soon overtook him.

The man turned around as soon as he heard Klyn's footsteps. “Hello there, fellow traveler,” he said merrily. “One itinerant minstrel and wandering wastrel, at your service.”

Klyn's heartbeat roared in his ears. A wandering bard. And not just any—Klyn remembered his face and his light blond hair; this was Talsgar, one of his fellow students at the Bards College.

“Good day,” Klyn managed to say. He struggled to maintain his composure. Would Talsgar recognize him? Return to the College and alert Viarmo and the guards that the infamous thief had returned?

“Indeed,” Talsgar agreed. “A perfect day for a song, wouldn't you say?”

“I don't know much about singing,” Klyn lied.

“Not many folks do, but if you wish to learn more, I suggest you visit the Bards College in Solitude,” Talsgar said. “Even a warrior like yourself would be welcome.”

_He hasn't recognized me yet,_ Klyn thought. _I should just leave._ But he couldn't pass up this opportunity to test whether or not Talsgar had really forgotten him, so he asked, “Is that where you learned your craft?”

“Aye,” Talsgar answered. “Studied under Inge Six-Fingers myself.” The bard showed absolutely no signs of suspicion or remembrance.

“Pleasure talking to you,” Klyn said quickly, and continued on his way. He breathed out a great sigh of relief; if even Talsgar didn't remember him, it was unlikely that anyone at the College still did.

After all, he had changed so much since then—he was now a seasoned mercenary, with new scars and armor and a look in his eye that warned simple townsfolk to keep their distance. He was no longer the scared little thief who played the lute and sang folk songs. He was Hawkeye, the ruthless archer.

With that worry assuaged, Klyn smiled as he walked along the road, even when he had to dispatch a skeever and shot a wolf through the eye. The bound bow was working splendidly well for him, although he did regret that he couldn't use its arrows in close combat as he had with physical ones. Still, this meant he didn't have to bother trying to pull them out of any dead wolves' carcasses.

He very nearly missed the cutback that would bring him to Riften. Now the noise of the late-summer crickets and singing birds brought his heart home. The road cut back and forth as it slowly wound its way up the mountain. Klyn recognized the area as the region right near Cragslane, that seedy bar from whence the pit wolves in Whiterun had escaped. He steered clear of the entrance and focused on working his way up the mountain as quickly as he could.

Eventually he made it up to Shor's Watchtower—a landmark familiar to him even as a young boy. Now he was in the land that he called home; the sky was filled with big, puffy white clouds and the birch trees' yellow leaves rustled in the light breeze. He grinned at the sight. _This_ was where he belonged.

The light had just begun to change as he entered Shor's Stone. He asked a nearby guard if he might have a seat by the bonfire they kept burning for the villagers, and then sat down in one of the wooden chairs gathered round the pit to have his evening meal.

The rest of the villagers were either busy or still working in the nearby mine, so there was no one to talk to as he ate. The sun was beginning to sink, its fading light turning the sky shades of blue and pink, so he ate quickly, standing up after a mere half hour of resting his weary bones. He'd had worse trips through Cyrodiil, where he'd had to fight off several bears in a day. That really took a toll out of you.

The guard he'd spoken to earlier approached him then. “You aren't heading down to Riften, are you?” she asked.

“I am,” Klyn replied, taken aback.

“Don't take the main road,” the guard advised. “Fort Greenwall's been overrun with bandits, and the road runs right through it. Best to take the path over there”—she pointed towards a dirt path leading into the birch forest—“if you want to avoid trouble.”

“Thanks.” Klyn took the guard's advice and started down the path.

This route took him nearer to the mountains, away from civilization. The sun set into dusk and the constellations began to glimmer in the darkening sky; Klyn had forgotten how quickly the day changed to evening up north in Skyrim.

The walls of Fort Greenwall rose up in the distance, and Klyn stopped for a moment at a nearby pool of water to get a drink. The water was cold, clear, and fresh, reflecting the night sky above him. His way was now lit by the light of Masser, the white moon of Nirn. Although the swirl of stars reaching across the sky was beautiful, he hoped he would make it to Riften soon—his journey had been swift so far, even despite his little detour at Fort Amol.

Still, even with Masser's light to guide him, it was getting difficult to find his way. Pockets of the forest were completely dark, and could be home to some of Skyrim's most dangerous wild beasts.

As if to confirm his fears, three frostbite spiders appeared to jump out of the undergrowth, startling Klyn. He struggled to summon the bound bow, and felt a searing pain in his shoulder as one spider spat its acidic poison at him. It sizzled in his flesh, but he fought through the pain and shot arrow after arrow into each bulbous body until they all had crumbled to the ground.

Grunting with pain, Klyn craned his head to assess his wound; it was only a mild poisoning, but he could feel his strength slowly ebbing. He downed a small healing potion to combat the effects of the venom. He was so close to Riften now; he didn't want to stop and rest for the night. He would simply continue at a far slower pace, limping along through the forest, and hopefully arrive at the gates of Riften before midnight. But gods, it had been a long day.

He met a patrol of Stormcloak soldiers where two paths intersected up ahead. They helpfully directed him towards Riften before setting off on the path Klyn had just taken, no doubt checking up on Shor's Stone this evening. He turned right and soon came back onto the main road.

Klyn found himself facing three great wooden watchtowers, and he felt his pulse race with excitement. He was close. He continued up the road, passing by the towers and skirting around Riften's stables. The horses were still awake; it couldn't be that late, then.

He approached the gate of Riften and felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. It had been so long since he had set foot within these walls.

“Hold there,” the guard on the right side of the gate barked. “Before I let you into Riften you need to pay the visitor's tax.”

_What a con,_ Klyn thought to himself. But the guard seemed familiar somehow. He had heard that voice somewhere before.

“Is that . . .” He squinted, trying to recall. “Is that you, Caldak?”

The guard took off his helmet, revealing a face Klyn remembered from long ago, in Honorhall Orphanage. “Klyn?” he gasped.

The two grasped forearms in joy. Caldak and Klyn had been dear friends at the orphanage together, hiding out from Grelod and generally getting into trouble before Bernt took Klyn to Solitude.

“My friend!” Caldak cried while the other guard looked on. “An age has passed since we last saw each other! When you left Honorhall, I had no idea what became of you.”

“I see you joined the Guard,” Klyn remarked. “A good choice.”

“And you? What have you done with yourself?”

“I traveled to Cyrodiil and took up mercenary work,” Klyn responded. “Is Grelod still around?”

Caldak spat on the ground. “Unfortunately, the hag lives.” He lowered his voice. “But if you want to take care of her, I can assure you the guards will look the other way.”

Klyn laughed. “No, that's not what I came here for. I'm just looking for a place to stay. Is the Bee and Barb still open?”

“Aye, under new management, but still the same old inn,” Klyn's old friend replied. “Ah, I nearly forgot! Your brother, how does he fare?”

“Last I heard, he'd joined the Stormcloaks.”

“A righteous cause,” Caldak said approvingly. “Here, let me open the gate for you. None of this 'tax' business for such a good friend. Are you staying long in Riften?”

“If all goes well, I believe so” Klyn replied. “Thank you, Caldak. I hope to see you around.”

“And I you!”

Caldak and his partner opened the gate for Klyn, and he slipped inside.

Riften had not changed much since he'd left it. The wood of the buildings was newer, and he suspected new families had moved in, but it was still the same busy city it had always been. He breathed in the cool air fresh off the lake and headed towards the old inn.

It wasn't even close to midnight when he crossed the bridge over the canal running through the city and pulled open the door to the Bee and Barb. He should be able to find a decent bed here, and maybe a drink to soothe his aching muscles. The afternoon's fighting had finally caught up with him.

Klyn walked through a crowd of unfamiliar faces that looked up at him in distrust; he was now an outsider here, although he hoped that would soon change. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a bottle of ale from the female Argonian serving drinks.

Someone soon sat next to him. “Keerava, the usual, if you will,” he said in a low voice.

Without a word, the Argonian slid the stranger a bottle of Black-Briar mead. Klyn remembered its taste and wished he could afford a bottle, but the Black-Briars had always sold their liquor at outrageously high prices. The man sitting next to him clearly had good coin in his pocket.

But something bothered Klyn about the man next to him. He wore a kind of leather armor that Klyn had never seen before, and a hood over his face. Klyn hadn't even heard him approach the bar, his footsteps had been so quiet. Something told Klyn that the man next to him was a thief, and that the gold he bought the mead with was not his.

Klyn turned to make idle conversation with the stranger to pass the time; he had been a thief once, and was not here to make judgements on others. But when the other man looked up, Klyn found himself staring into the aged face of none other than his old mentor, Cynric Endell.

 


	8. A New Home

Last Seed, 4E 201

“Klyn? By the gods, is that you?” Cynric gasped, blinking hard, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. He had new lines on his face, as Klyn surely must have, but still looked the same man who'd taught Klyn to steal and shoot.

“Cyrnic!” Klyn exclaimed, but made an effort to keep his voice down. He didn't want to disturb the other patrons of the Bee and Barb.

“Is this your return from Cyrodiil?” Cynric asked.

“It is now,” Klyn replied. He sighed. “I lost my partners on the journey here, and now . . . I'm a bit lost.”

“Partners in what? What did you end up doing?”

“I was a mercenary in the Imperial City.”

“Good for you, lad, good for you,” Cynric said. “Knew you could do it. Did you ever get my courier?”

Klyn shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I made a good life for myself there. But now that's all gone.”

Cynric nodded in sympathy. “I know what that feels like,” he said quietly, and a heavy, remembering silence hung over the pair for a moment. “But Klyn, you must stay in Riften with me.”

“I was planning to put up here for the night anyway.”

“Nonsense! I'll introduce you to everyone at the Guild.” Klyn assumed the Breton meant the Thieves Guild, who had a presence even in Skyrim. Cynric seemed the type to go for that sort of thing. “We always have an extra bed,” he continued, “especially for a new member.”

Klyn frowned. “What, you think _I'll_ join the Thieves Guild?”

“Er . . . that's what I was hoping,” Cynric stuttered, confused. “Why come to Riften otherwise?”

“I don't know,” Klyn admitted. “But I stopped thieving in Cyrodiil. I was . . . ashamed, I suppose. Ashamed of what everyone in Solitude thought of me.”

“So you began killing instead?”

Klyn cringed. It didn't sound good at all, but he reluctantly gave his old friend a nod.

“I know I can't tell you what to do, Klyn, but by the Eight, I've missed having you as a partner,” Cynric said. “With the Guild, what happened to us—High Rock, Solitude—that will never happen again, not with our friends to back us up. But your future is up to you.”

Klyn took another gulp of ale. He didn't know what he wanted to do anymore. Mercenary work without Ulail and Sanna seemed blasphemous, and now that he'd avenged his parents, he felt like killing was no longer necessary. Maybe it _was_ time to become a thief again. But this time it would be different—instead of working on his own, with all the terrible risks involved, he would have a guild to support him. He would even have Cynric again.

He gave his old mentor a long, hard look, and then sighed, almost as if in defeat. “The Guild . . . if they'll have me, I'm theirs.”

Cynric grinned. “I was hoping you'd say that. Here, let's leave this dump. I only come here for the mead, anyway. The Flagon's far better priced.” He scattered coins on the bar to pay for their drinks and led Klyn out of the inn.

They passed the quiet marketplace; all its vendors had packed up and were asleep at home by this hour. They crossed back over the canal and walked around the Temple of Mara to the local cemetery in back. Cynric motioned for Klyn to follow him into the mausoleum, where he pressed a button concealed under the lid of the marble casket inside. The stone floor of the mausoleum slid back to reveal a set of steps leading down underneath the temple; never had Klyn imagined, even as a child, that this sort of secret passageway had existed right here, under everyone's noses. He followed Cynric to the hatch at the end of the passage and down a ladder that led them deep underground.

He found himself in a cistern of some sort, clearly inhabited by many people. It was fully furnished with rugs, beds, Thieves Guild banners, wardrobes, alchemy tables, desks, and chests—and populated by thieves dressed in the standard Guild armor with leather hoods obscuring their faces.

Immediately, four men confronted Klyn and Cynric; they moved so quickly and silently that Klyn was almost sure they'd used a spell to conjure themselves in front of him.

“Endell! What the hell do you think you're doing?” a red-haired man with a thick accent demanded. He sounded as if he were from the Reach.

“This is an old friend, and fellow thief,” Cynric replied. “I can vouch for him.”

“Doesn't matter,” growled a Nord with red war paint on his face. “Only members are allowed in the cistern.”

“Sorry, but I didn't feel like dragging him all the way through the Ratway,” Cynric said with a particularly impressive roll of his eyes. “Now, can we all just take a step back and calm down?”

“Aye, take it easy,” another Nord in the group said. “Cynric wouldn't bring him here without good reason.”

“Thank you, Vipir!” Cynric cried. He turned to the red-haired Nord again. “Now Brynjolf, can we sort this out peacefully?”

“You're putting the entire Guild at risk,” a thin-lipped Bosmer said grumpily. “Are we supposed to treat this sort of infraction lightly?”

Klyn gulped. He had no idea who any of these people were, but he got the feeling that Cynric had broken some serious protocol by bringing him here on a whim like this.

“You,” Brynjolf demanded, pointing at Klyn. “Who are you?”

“My name is Klyn,” he answered obediently, “but I'm known as Hawkeye in the other provinces. I'm . . . I _was_ a mercenary.”

“Then join the Dark Brotherhood,” the wood elf muttered.

“How do you know Cynric?” Brynjolf asked.

Cynric spoke over Klyn at this point. “We met in Solitude when he was barely a man,” he said quickly. “I trained him in archery—yes, Niruin, I'm capable of that—and thieving, and we worked as partners for a time before I joined up. It doesn't matter who he _was,_ just that he's loyal, and he's a good thief, and he wants the same things that we want, alright?”

The four other men were silent for a few moments.

“Just give me a few days with him,” Cynric pleaded, “and then you can decide whether or not you want to present him to Mercer as a new recruit.”

“And what should I say to Mercer in the meantime?” Brynjolf asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “That we're taking in strays now?”

“I'll talk to him if that becomes necessary,” Cynric said. “Please, Brynjolf. I'll owe you a favor.”

“Aye, and a mighty large one at that,” the Nord muttered. He ran a hand through his long hair and sighed. “Fine. You get two nights. But if I don't like what I see, he's gone. Understand me?”

Cynric gave the other man a polite bow of his head.

“Alright, lads, disperse. Nothing to see here,” Brynjolf said, and the three others wandered off, shooting venomous looks back at Cynric and Klyn.

“I'm guessing it didn't go this way for you,” Klyn chuckled. He was nervous as hell, but that never seemed to affect his sense of humor.

“It's just because I'm not Delvin,” Cynric said sourly. “Anyone he or Brynjolf bring in on their own, they get an immediate audience with Mercer. But because I'm not anywhere on the chain of command . . . Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be. But being on top has its benefits.”

“Clearly.”

“Let me show you to your bed.” Cynric led Klyn over to a nearby bed that was apparently unclaimed by any thieves.

Klyn sat down on the edge of it. “So, who were they?” he asked, nodding at the thieves across the way. They were huddled together now, whispering amongst each other and glancing in his direction every few minutes.

“Well, Brynjolf is our second-in-command,” Cynric explained. “He oversees the new recruits and some job assignments. The Bosmer is Niruin; he's an archer from Valenwood who, I must admit, is even better than I am. The one with the war paint on his face? That's Thrynn. He used to be a bandit, so he can be a bit uncouth—it's always fun to tease him. Vipir the Fleet is the last one. I have a feeling the two of you will get along.

“You'll meet the rest of the Guild tomorrow, I'm sure. Rune, Sapphire, Mercer, the Flagon crowd. In the meantime, get some rest. You must have had a tiring day.”

“And tomorrow?” Klyn asked, stifling a yawn.

“Tomorrow, we'll see if you're still fit to be a thief.”

~

Klyn slept for a good eight hours, even better than he had at the inn back in Riverwood. The cistern didn't smell as terrible as he'd expected it to; the murky water was definitely not Riften's sewage, as he had feared before. Maybe it was drained canal water instead.

The morning sun filtered through a small hole in the ceiling of the cistern, illuminating Klyn's new home—that is, if he was so lucky. The other thieves were still fast asleep, and the only sound was that of the water rushing down from the pipes above into the various pools around the cistern.

Cynric had woken up as well, and the two dressed for the day at their separate beds before meeting up in front of a long corridor. Klyn followed his old mentor down the hall and into a training room of sorts. Bales of straw were stacked against the wall, with practice dummies and targets positioned about nearby. Weapon racks hung on the wall and an assortment of chests lay clumped together in one corner.

Cynric brought Klyn over to the chests, and instructed him to pick as many locks as he could, as quickly as he could. Klyn was still a master with the pick, and made his way through the chests easily. The last one—a Dwemer chest, by the looks of it—was a bit more difficult, but it only took him a few broken lockpicks before he finally got it.

“Not as good as me, but still good,” Cynric commented with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

They headed back to the cistern and sat down at the dining table to eat a breakfast of bread, eidar cheese, and alto wine—a meal much like the one they'd shared just before the Mor Khazgur job. Klyn did not see the Swordsman anywhere, nor did he ask after him. As far as he was concerned, the orc was dead to him.

Niruin took a seat next to Cynric, across the table from Klyn. The Bosmer reminded him of Ulail, and Klyn took a long swig of wine to settle the aching in his heart.

The wood elf poured some wine into his own tankard and took a delicate sip. “Ugh,” he declared. “The wine in Skyrim tastes like urine compared to the fine vintages we had in Valenwood.”

Judging the elf to be in a better mood than the night before, Klyn timidly asked, “Are you from there, then?”

“I used to live there working at my father's winery,” Niruin answered amiably. “We made the finest wine to ever cross your lips, I promise you. We were doing well—plenty of coin, a huge mansion, and I was even betrothed to a lovely young woman.”

And yet he was here, in Riften. “Why would you leave all that behind?” Klyn wondered aloud.

“Because it was dull,” Niruin replied bluntly. “Every day was the same boring routine; working at the winery, social visits with friends, parties with no one I cared about.”

 _Sounds like_ such _a hard life,_ Klyn thought somewhat sourly.

“I just wanted a little excitement. Something dangerous,” Niruin continued. “I hooked up with a guild in Valenwood . . . I think they called themselves the Silver Crescents.”

Klyn nodded. Ulail had mentioned them to him once before.

“Spent quite a few years doing jobs for them. Made a lot of coin, but I didn't care. I didn't really need it . . . I was running with them because it fit, made me feel alive.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Well, after a while my father caught on to what I was doing. He confronted me one night and gave me a choice: either leave Valenwood, or he'd have me thrown in jail. Gave me a day to say my goodbyes to everyone.” The elf paused. “I ended up in Skyrim thanks to a contact I'd made when I was with the Crescents . . . good old Delvin. He introduced me to Gallus—the old guildmaster—and that was it. I've been here ever since. And you know what? Despite what I left behind, I don't regret it one bit.”

“Sounds like Cynric's story,” Klyn commented.

“And yours,” Cynric shot back.

“Oh?” Niruin raised an eyebrow.

Klyn sighed. He might as well get the embarrassing story over with. “I was framed for stealing from the Bards College years ago,” he explained. “I was forced to leave Skyrim, so Cynric helped me start a new life in Cyrodiil.” He shrugged. “Now I'm a mercenary.”

Niruin raised his tankard. “Ex-mercenary,” he said, flashing Klyn a grin.

Klyn ducked his head in embarrassment, but still smiled to himself. It looked like he was already beginning to fit in here. He prayed to the Divines that Brynjolf wouldn't make him leave the next day.

“So,” Cynric said after they'd finished their meal, “shall we practice picking pockets, my friend?”

Niruin snorted derisively, and Klyn gave him an inquisitive look. “I don't bother with silly pickpocketing jobs when I can make far more at the gambling table,” the elf explained.

“What Niruin here doesn't understand is that cheating at dice makes more enemies than lifting coins from unsuspecting passerby,” Cynric shot back. “Let's go.”

Cynric let Klyn try to pick his own pocket, but that method didn't work very well; the thief was too aware of his own surroundings to be a realistic victim. They decided it was practice better left for after dinner, in the marketplace up aboveground while the light was dimming.

So they practiced archery instead. Cynric handed Klyn a well-used hunting bow and a quiver of simple iron arrows to use, and they began shooting arrows at the dummies lined up in the cistern. Klyn was pleased to see that he had far surpassed his mentor, and his skills ended up drawing quite a crowd.

Niruin was one of the onlookers. When Klyn went to pull his arrows out of the dummies, he approached. “There are better targets in the training room,” he said. “Come with me and we can all practice together, eh?”

The three of them set up their targets and practiced together for several hours. Cynric had been right; Niruin was clearly the better archer. But Klyn was the best, by far. He'd made a living out of never missing a shot, whereas Cynric and Niruin had both taken it up as a hobby—a means to an end if things got rough on a job.

“I've got to admit,” Niruin said, “I'm impressed, Klyn. You could very well put me out of business as a trainer.”

“Not interested,” Klyn replied. “It's all yours.”

Niruin clapped him on the back, and Klyn grinned. It seemed like they would be good friends.

After supper, Cynric and Klyn left the cistern by the secret entrance. They climbed back up the ladder to the mausoleum and Cynric pulled a chain to slide the tile back again.

“Don't worry, it'll slide back in a few minutes,” Cynric told Klyn, leading him away from the cemetery and towards the Temple of Mara. “Now, show me what you can do.”

The sky was dark now, and Klyn stuck to the shadows on the way to the marketplace, sneaking around the patrolling guards. They made themselves easy to see by carrying bright torches with them wherever they walked. Soon Klyn was in the marketplace without having been spotted, crouching behind a closed stall to await his victim.

He picked his mark out of the few townspeople ambling over to the Bee and Barb: a bearded Nord wearing a red fur hat. His clothes reeked of wealth, and Klyn figured he wouldn't miss an extra gold piece or two.

He crept up behind the man and slipped his fingers into his pocket as he was still walking, deftly grabbing a jewel and a ring. The Nord didn't even feel the fabric of his pants rustle. Klyn was surprised he was still as good as he used to be, although he knew he certainly had some room to improve. It was all about staying out of sight and avoiding arousing suspicion by acting natural.

He met Cynric back by the temple, where they examined the stolen goods in the light of the burning torches—he'd lifted a garnet and a silver ring. Not bad, but as Cynric pointed out, “Not the best.” He still had a long way to go if he was going to best his former partner-in-crime.

Even so, they'd had a successful day of training. Klyn felt quite confident in his skills, and if what Cynric told him was true, Mercer Frey, the guildmaster, would definitely want to see him.

“Let's go for drinks,” Cynric said, clapping a hand on Klyn's back as they ambled through the cistern. “My treat.”

Klyn followed him through a heavy door and into a dead-end tunnel. Cynric pushed against the far end of the tunnel and it opened slightly. On the other side Klyn discovered it was a false back to a storage cabinet. These thieves were clever ones, that was for sure.

The cavernous room they entered now was quite impressive. On the near side, groups of tables and chairs had been arranged in front of a bar. A wooden platform extended out onto the underground lake, and torches lit the room, giving it a somewhat ominous feel. The cistern seemed much safer compared to this place.

Cynric pointed out the other Guild members as they passed by. “That's Delvin, my old friend; I'm sure I've told you about him. That Redguard over there is our fence, Tonilia; if you want to sell that garnet, she's your girl. Dirge is standing guard over there. Not much to him other than his pretty face.” They sat at the bar together. “Vekel the Man,” Cynric greeted the barkeep. “Two Black-Briars, if you will.”

Vekel the Man wordlessly slid two bottles over to Cynric, more focused on cleaning some empty tankards than any business transactions. Delvin approached them then.

“And who's this fresh meat, eh?” the balding Breton asked.

“Name's Klyn.” Klyn stuck out his hand to shake.

Delvin gave him a firm handshake. “What do you think of the Guild so far, hm? You need any advice—assumin' we keep you, that is—well, you come to me.”

“Yes, sir,” Klyn said with a grin.

“See, that kind of attitude comes from someone who wants to get rich and stay alive long enough to enjoy it,” Delvin said, leaning comfortably against the bar. He gave Klyn a quick appraisal. “We're goin' to get along nicely.” With that, he left the archers to their drinks.

Klyn was startled then by someone slamming their hand down hard on the surface of the bar. He whipped around to find himself face-to-face with a blond Imperial, a sour look on her face.

“If you think you're here to replace me, you're dead wrong,” she hissed. “I don't care who you are, I don't care where you're from, I don't care who's your buddy. You don't mess with me, and we're good. Understand?”

“Hi, Vex,” Cynric said cheerfully.

“Um, yes,” Klyn stammered.

“Good,” Vex snapped. “Now that we got that out of the way, we can talk.”

Klyn didn't know what to say. When women were angry with him, it was usually because he'd done something admittedly stupid. And yet he hadn't even been here long enough to offend her.

Vex rolled her eyes at his speechlessness. “Brynjolf's been talking about you,” she commented. “Word is you're a better archer than Niruin. That true?”

“Yes.”

“Don't say much, do you?”

“I'm a bit afraid to, if I'm being honest,” Klyn admitted with a sheepish grin.

To his relief, the woman smiled back at him. “Sorry about that. Usually new recruits either have outrageously big heads or they won't stop hitting on me. As long as you keep that polite attitude you've got going, we'll be fine,” she said.

“Good to know,” Klyn murmured. “Nice to meet you.”

Vex gave him another nod, ignoring Cynric completely, and stalked off.

Cynric blew out a big breath. “Well, I think she likes you.”

“I just don't want any trouble,” Klyn mumbled.

“Ah, don't worry about her. She's always like that,” Cynric assured him. “And if you're nervous about tomorrow? Don't be. You're practically one of us already. Brynjolf will approve, I promise you.”

Klyn took another drink from his bottle of mead, thinking wistfully. _I sincerely hope so._

~

The next day, Brynjolf observed Klyn's progress from where he stood in the corner of the training room, nodding every once in a while. After watching him split an arrow in half with another one, he waved his hand.

“Alright, that's enough,” he announced. “It's clear we can use someone like you, and I've got to admit, you've a likeable personality. That's valuable in a thief. Follow me and I'll take you to Mercer, lad.”

“Thank you,” Klyn said, trying not to sound too over-eager.

He followed the other Nord to a desk in the cistern. Behind it stood a Breton dressed in all black light armor, much like Brynjolf and Vex. He looked up from the papers on his desk as Klyn and Brynjolf approached.

“Mercer?” said Brynjolf. “This is the one Cynric was talking about . . . our new recruit.”

“This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf,” the Breton warned, straightening up. He turned to Klyn. “Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions . . . you do what we say, when we say. Do I make myself clear?”

As much as he hated taking orders from people he didn't know, Klyn relented and answered, “Yes, I understand.” If he kept his head down he would surely be accepted as a thief here and allowed to make a new name for himself. And that was all he wanted.

“Good. Then I think it's time we put your expertise to the test.” He pushed a piece of paper towards Klyn. “All the details about your job are here. Cynric claims you possess an aptitude for our line of work. If so, prove it.”

“Mercer, aren't you forgetting something?” Brynjolf asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes,” Mercer said. “Since Cynric assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild.”

Klyn grinned despite himself. He didn't particularly like Mercer, but the rest of them seemed like people he could work with. They weren't as hardened and tough as the mercenaries he was used to, but they were savvy in other ways. Even so, he felt like he belonged here, more than he had any other place in his life.

He barely registered Brynjolf telling him to see Delvin about a new set of armor. He was in the Guild.

He had a home again.

 

 


	9. The Sungard Job

Morning Star, 4E 202

_“It'll be your most dangerous job yet, I can assure you that much. I'd do it myself, but . . .”_

_“You're known there.”  
_

_“Exactly. I'd give anything to be the one on this burglary, so don't mess it up, okay?”_

_“Yes, ma'am.”_

_“Don't call me that.”  
_

Klyn smirked to himself as he remembered his conversation with Vex before setting off for Solitude. This was undoubtedly the burglary of a lifetime, and even after only a few months at the Guild, she'd entrusted Klyn with this responsibility. He and Rune had already made a pass through the capital city to ensure that no one from the Bards College would recognize him should they see him on the street. He'd even had a long conversation with Pantea at Radiant Raiment as a final experiment.

Now he was riding the back of a cart into Solitude, posing as an Imperial soldier come back to report to the Legion at Castle Dour. The mark was Legate Adventus Caesennius. The man had recently received a locked strongbox containing a fortune, and the Guild's contact in Solitude, Sabine Nytte, had promptly reported the shipment to Delvin.

“After all, what does a legate need with that much gold, anyway?” Vex had snickered when detailing the job to Klyn.

Klyn regarded this as the chance to give the Legion a little payback for the ordeal he'd gone through at Helgen. He didn't begrudge them too much for assuming he was part of Ulfric Stormcloak's outfit, but he felt as if this job would serve to balance the Legion's karma somewhat.

The guards let the cart into Solitude and Klyn hopped off once it passed Castle Dour. He entered through the front gates, nodding at the other soldiers with respect. It felt strange, wearing someone else's clothes rather than his own Guild armor, but it was the only way he'd be able to sneak into the castle otherwise.

Klyn paused outside the strategy room, putting his back to the wall so he wouldn't be seen. He heard a man and woman arguing about Ulfric Stormcloak's plans inside. There was no way to reach the legate's quarters without passing by these Legionnaires.

Klyn uncorked a potion of invisibility. It would only last a few seconds—just enough to get him into the legate's room. He downed it and then watched his hand to judge whether or not the spell was in effect. Once he could no longer see his armor or his flesh, he ducked into the room and skirted around the Legionnaires inside. He entered the first room on the right, thanking the Divines that the door was already open. It wouldn't do for one of the soldiers to see a door magically swing open by itself.

Already the potion was beginning to wear off. Klyn searched the legate's quarters for the strongbox, finding nothing worthwhile but a small amount gold and a coin purse. He looked into the last section of the room and found a stack of wooden crates. They appeared to have been unopened, but one crate, when closer inspected, revealed that it had a false lid. Klyn quietly opened it up and discovered the strongbox inside.

He picked the lock and deposited the gold and few gems into the pockets sewn into the inside of his armor. Then he placed the strongbox back into the crate and sealed it up once more. There. Now all he had to do was make it back outside undetected.

Klyn peered out into the strategy room once more. There were three soldiers there—no, not soldiers, commanding officers. One of them was General Tullius himself, and the female legate Klyn remembered from Helgen. The other man must have been Adventus Caesennius.

Klyn only had the one invisibility potion, so he would have to wait until they left. Fortunately, something clattered loudly outside the walls of the castle, in the training yard. The sound was followed by a great number of panicked shouts. The three officers rushed out of the room, allowing Klyn to escape unnoticed. Nocturnal was looking out for him today, that was for sure.

He took a different way out in case another soldier recognized him, crossing the strategy room and taking the stairs up to the parapets. He would find his way back down from there.

A thunderstorm had moved in, and the rain provided adequate cover for him. The guards posted on the parapets were standing around sullenly, not particularly alert as their main focus was cursing the Divines and trying to stay dry. He made it as far as what he recognized to be the door to the Thalmor headquarters, located just above the training yard, when he heard a low voice not two steps behind him: “If you run, I will have you killed.”

He slowly turned around to confront his follower.

A Nord woman with flaming red hair stood behind him, wearing a set of armor that Klyn had never seen the likes of; its colors were similar to those of the Penitus Ocultus soldiers he'd seen posted in Dragon Bridge, but its form and fit reminded him of the armor worn by the seldom-seen Dark Brotherhood assassins back in Cyrodiil. This woman was no ordinary Imperial soldier.

Her green eyes flashed at him. “You've stolen something from Legate Caesennius,” she accused in a low, somewhat breathy tone. “Are you from the Thieves Guild?”

Klyn didn't answer. Normally the guards and the Guild had a tacit agreement; the Guild could operate as they liked, within reason, and the guards would receive a monthly thank-you gift in return. But the Legion was not familiar with such terms, and Klyn had no desire to implicate the Guild in anything serious.

The woman sighed. “I suppose it doesn't matter. What is your name, thief? Answer, or I will be forced to _make_ you answer.”

Klyn had to admit, she didn't seem all that intimidating. She was a good half-foot shorter than him, and looked light enough. But something in her eyes told him she was capable of more than she let on.

“Hawkeye,” he offered reluctantly.

“Well, _Hawkeye,”_ she said, narrowing her eyes mischievously, “I admire your style. This job was a bit simple, hm, and of course you didn't see me following you, but it's impressive nonetheless.”

Klyn didn't know whether to say “thank you” or to be offended.

“So I'm offering you a deal,” the woman continued confidently. “You may keep the gold Adventus has squirreled away, in exchange for a favor.”

“What sort of favor?”

“You will accompany me on a short trip,” she said. “You will do as I say, no questions asked. Are we clear?”

“Doesn't sound like I have much of a choice,” Klyn chuckled nervously. But at least she would let him keep the gold—if this wasn't some elaborate trap, that is.

“You don't.”

“Then lead the way . . .”

“Talia,” she filled in for him. She relaxed her stance and then brushed past him, leaving him to follow her.

He did so, somewhat dazed. He wasn't sure if he was following this admittedly captivating woman to his death or not. She surely could have killed him on the spot, but instead he was “accompanying” her somewhere. He could only hope that this would be a fate not much worse than the death she could have delivered to him.

Talia arranged for him to stay in Castle Dour for the night with the other soldiers, making some story up about how he'd come from the Reach Imperial camp with secret news. The Imperials paid him little attention, more focused on drinking their pains away and getting a good night's rest before training the next day.

He and Talia met up in the training yard the next morning, well before the sun rose. Klyn followed her on foot to Katla's Farm, where she commandeered two palomino geldings for the journey. Klyn mounted his horse with unease; how long would this trip take them? If he even got out alive, the Guild would be expecting him back soon and there would be no way to avoid a long, complicated confrontation with Mercer. The man had suspected everyone of sabotage at some point, and liked Klyn even less because he was the newest addition to the Guild.

“Where are we going?” Klyn asked once they'd turned onto the main road in the direction of Dragon Bridge.

“Rorikstead, for now,” Talia called back. “What happened to 'no questions asked?'”

“My apologies,” Klyn muttered.

They set off at a steady pace, slowing down as they walked their horses through Dragon Bridge proper. Clearly this wasn't a secret sort of mission; especially since Talia had specifically told him to keep the Legion armor on. This was some kind of shady Imperial business that Klyn knew he shouldn't be messing with. Still, it wasn't as if he had any kind of choice in the matter; Talia had made that clear enough.

They passed an overturned cart and a dead horse buzzing with flies after crossing the Karth River, and shortly came upon a giant lumbering down the road. Klyn's heart leapt to his throat; he'd forgotten how huge the giants of Skyrim had been. He readied his bow, but Talia hissed at him, “Hold! We'll skirt around him.”

To Klyn's surprise, the giant barely looked up as they gave him a wide berth. He knew the creatures to be generally peaceful, but he always felt better if he didn't come into close contact with one.

Talia slowed her horse and trotted alongside Klyn's steed. “There's a bandit camp up ahead,” she advised him, nodding into the distance. “Robber's Gorge. We ride straight through, they'll ignore us. Understand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” She paused for a moment, giving him a strange look.

“Something I can help you with?” Klyn asked.

She shook her head. “No.” And then she galloped ahead, leaving Klyn behind in the dust.

He thought about turning his horse around and bolting, but with a weary sigh, decided against it and kicked his horse's side. He couldn't afford to have the whole of the Legion after him, especially now that this woman knew his face. And for some bizarre reason, he felt that he could trust her. Despite the Swordsman's betrayal, he still couldn't help but believe in the good in people. Even this mysterious Nord.

Klyn followed Talia's lead as they ran their horses through the gorge. Shoddily-made arrows came flying at them, and Talia's horse whinnied in fear as they sped through the hostile camp, but soon enough they were on the other side and well past the range of any bandit bowmen. The bandits wouldn't stray so far from their camp as to come after them.

But as they came to a crossroads past the camp, Klyn's sharp eyes picked out some suspicious movement in the bushes up ahead. “Watch out!” he called to Talia, but she'd seen it too, and had already drawn a set of short knives that crackled with some sort of lightning magic.

Klyn readied his bow as the bandits sprung out from their hiding place, yelling war cries and shouting out threats as they charged the two riders. He picked off two of them quickly, while Talia's knives took care of the remaining pair. Once they were sure there were no survivors, they dismounted to pull their weapons from the bandits' corpses.

Klyn eyed his companion warily. Knife-throwing wasn't a commonly-taught skill in the Legion—and those magicked knives were certainly not standard-issue. She was no foot soldier, that was certain.

It had taken them only two hours to reach Rorikstead from the farm. There, they tied up their horses at the local inn and headed inside for the first meal of the day. Klyn had nearly forgotten that neither of them had eaten breakfast yet.

Talia ordered them a simple meal of eggs, pheasant meat, and bread—no mead. She didn't strike Klyn as the drinking type.

“And is this paid for by the good Empire?” he joked, not expecting a reply.

She didn't give him one, but instead pushed his plate towards him. “Eat.”

Klyn obeyed and began tearing apart his bread to dip into the gently-cooked eggs. The foods of Cyrodiil had been complicated and strange; he'd found he missed Skyrim's simple fare.

“You need to know a few things before we head on,” Talia told him, glancing around the taproom to make sure no one was listening. “We'll be going to Fort Sungard today. We've taken it from the Forsworn, but someone's leaked our movements back to them. A sympathizer in our midst, no doubt. I have my suspicions as to who it is. You will take this,” she said, pulling a sheet of folded parchment out of her knapsack and sliding it across the table, “and plant it in that officer's chest, and then clear out immediately. If you're caught, you will be executed.”

“And what will you be doing at the fort?” Klyn asked, taking the parchment and tucking it into his pocket.

“What I will be doing is none of your business,” she sniffed. “Now, are we clear?”

“Aye, although I don't know why you have to make a simple shill job sound so exciting,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Talia smiled. “I forgot how talented you thieves were,” she laughed, batting her eyelashes at him. For some reason, she was all smiles now; probably trying to lull Klyn into a false sense of security.

He fought to keep his face straight as he realized that she would probably kill him after he planted the evidence.

“So,” he said, swallowing a bite of pheasant, “why do you need _me_ for this? It's simple enough that someone like you can do it.”

“I have a cover to maintain,” she said with a wave of her hand. “If I'm caught they'll accuse me of being the leak, and we won't have another chance at catching our man.”

Klyn nodded, but he suspected there was something she wasn't telling him. “And who do you take your orders from?”

She just smiled at him. “You didn't really think I would answer that, did you?”

“I guess not,” Klyn chuckled.

She looked out one of the inn's windows to study the slant of the sun. “Time to move.”

They left the inn and Klyn began to head to the horses. He stopped when Talia placed a hand on his arm. Her skin was surprisingly smooth.

She shook her head. “We go on foot from here,” she explained. “Our approach must be quiet.”

They set off for the fort, following the main road through the plains of Whiterun to the border of the Reach.

Twenty minutes into the walk, there was a roar in the distance, and Klyn looked up to see the form of a dragon circling in the south; it was far off, closer to Falkreath Hold than it was to the two travelers, but the sight still sent a chill through Klyn. Ever since his close encounter with the dragon that had ravaged Helgen, he couldn't quite escape the nightmares of that brush with death.

“I don't suppose the Legion knows anything about those?” Klyn asked, gesturing towards the flying beast.

“No,” Talia said, glaring at the horizon as if she took the dragon's existence as a personal insult. “Do you?”

“I was at Helgen, if that counts for anything.”

Talia frowned. “Why? Did you live there?”

“No. I was mistaken as a Stormcloak, I suppose,” he replied. “About to face your executioner, in fact.”

“And _are_ you a Stormcloak?”

“The Guild prefers to not take sides, as you well know,” Klyn answered. He didn't see much point in hiding it any longer; she clearly knew he was a Guild member already.

Talia gave him a knowing smile. “Except when they do.”

The archer decided to let that comment pass. She was an Imperial soldier—a strange one, no doubt—but she didn't understand what it meant to be part of something so close-knit like the Guild. Her “family” was hundreds, thousands of soldiers.

He changed the subject. “So, what armor is that?” Klyn asked, finally voicing his curiosity. “I've never seen an Imperial with that sort of livery before.”

“What can I say?” she said with a grin. “I'm one of a kind.”

 _She certainly is,_ Klyn thought, and they left it at that.

Talia was not one for idle conversation, so they spent the rest of the walk in silence. It was well into the afternoon when they reached the fort, a great complex of towers and walls overlooking the plains to the north and the river valley to the south.

They approached the fort proper through the main entrance, passing through the its initial defenses near the straw-roofed stables. Talia nodded to the patrolling soldiers and they saluted back.

“Place it in the chest of a Breton named Bradore Stovann,” Talia ordered Klyn in a hushed voice. “Muster is the next right under that archway over there. When you're done, meet me in the upper courtyard.” Then she split off to do whatever business she had at Sungard.

Klyn had seen many Imperial forts in his day, but this was certainly a large one. He followed Talia's directions and soon found himself standing inside the muster hall. The smells of stew and ale wafting up from the kitchen below hit him hard, and he felt his stomach growl. Several soldiers were seated at the tables before him, eating a late lunch.

One saw him and waved him over. “Join us, won't you?” she called, raising a tankard as a herald.

Klyn hesitantly accepted her offer, glancing to the side as he sat on one of the benches. He could see a group of beds and chests in the room to the left; perhaps that was where he would find Stovann's belongings. Despite his unease, he couldn't very well refuse to mingle with the other soldiers; he had to convince them he was one of them so they wouldn't blame him for any repercussions this shill job had later.

“You're new here,” remarked the same soldier who'd waved him over. She was a Dunmer with dark, inquisitive eyes. You wouldn't find the likes of her in the Stormcloak ranks. “What brings you to Sungard?”

“The endless joy of escorting officers,” Klyn said with a roll of his eyes that he hoped wasn't too much. “From Dour to here and on to Whiterun.” He decided to help himself to a bowl of cooling beef stew.

“It beats sitting around on your ass,” an Imperial down the bench remarked.

The dark elf nodded in agreement. “Although,” she said thoughtfully, “it's been good fun having these little skirmishes with the Forsworn. Those wildlings actually think they have a chance against us with their sticks and stones.”

“It's not sticks 'n stones when they bring spriggans with 'em,” the Imperial grumbled.

Klyn conversed easily with the Dunmer and Imperial for another ten, fifteen minutes as he chowed down on the soup. He was glad neither of them was the man he was going to incriminate; the Breton named Stovann was definitely not seated at the table with them.

After a while, the Dunmer left to go on patrol and the Imperial settled himself in one of the beds for an afternoon nap. Klyn stayed at the table, watching the Imperial out of the corner of his eye. Once the soldier appeared to be asleep, he slowly got up from the table and crept over to the sleeping quarters.

There were three chests aside from the Imperial's, and any of them could have been Stovann's. They were unlocked, some sort of bizarre Legion standard, which made Klyn's job much easier. He opened the first slowly, watching the sleeping soldier's face for any twitches. The chest opened smoothly. Klyn rifled through its contents: several potions, extra uniforms, and two books.

He opened the first book, _The Lusty Argonian Maid, Volume 1,_ and immediately wished he hadn't. The next, _Mace Etiquette_ , held the owner's name—a nigh-unpronounceable jumble of letters that he assumed belonged to an Orc. Not the man he was looking for. He closed the chest with a gentle _thump_ and moved on to the next bed.

This chest creaked loudly when he opened it, and Klyn held his breath as he watched the Imperial soldier grumble and turn over in his sleep. This was far too close for his liking. Klyn held the chest open at that angle with one hand and reached in with the other, pulling out a well-worn copy of _Mixed Tactics._ “Bradore Stovann” was written in a scrawling hand along the top of the first page.

Klyn pulled out the incriminating letter and slid it into the chest, positioning it so it looked like it had been hastily hidden. Vex always complimented him on his shill jobs, saying he was _almost_ as good as her. That was very high praise, considering the source.

The task taken care of, Klyn carefully closed the chest and crept out of the sleeping quarters. He quickly left the muster hall and wound his way back to the upper level of the courtyard, where Talia was waiting for him, tapping her boot against the stone ground in impatience.

“Let's move out,” she said loudly, and they left Fort Sungard without another word.

It was only until they were out of sight of the lookouts that Talia kicked Klyn's feet out from under him with a sweep of her leg and pinned him to the ground.

“Did you get caught?” she demanded, glowering at him.

“No,” Klyn gasped in surprise. What the hell did she think she was doing?

“You were in there too long.”

“Just making conversation with the locals. Blending in,” Klyn insisted. “That's a part of any shill job.” Even though he was in this rather precarious position, he didn't find himself all too shaken. The woman was a suspicious type, after all, and even though she was clearly no stranger to deception, he had the feeling that he could trust her. Or maybe that's just what she wanted him to think.

Talia didn't look convinced, but eased her hold on him just slightly. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I don't need you anymore. I could kill you, right now.”

“You could.”

“Then why aren't you quaking in your boots?”

Klyn did his best to shrug his shoulders, seeing as they were pinned to the ground below him. He suspected that his cool demeanor was the only thing keeping him alive at this point.

Talia looked somewhat unnerved, but let him up. She stalked off suddenly, leaving Klyn to catch up. “The only reason you're alive is so I don't have to explain your untimely demise to anyone,” she spat back over her shoulder.

He detected the trace of a lie in her tone. Something told him that Talia wasn't quite finished with him yet. That pleased him.

Even in this short time, he had grown quite fond of the fiery Nord.

 


	10. Legion

Morning Star, 4E 202

They arrived back at Castle Dour the next day, having stayed overnight at the inn in Rorikstead. Now Klyn sat in the corner of the strategy room with Talia, awaiting General Tullius's return from the Blue Palace.

He cast a sidelong glance at Talia. She had told him before entering Solitude that he was not to mention any of the details of their trip to Fort Sungard, the reason being that “Dour has eyes and ears of its own.” It didn't strike Klyn as entirely honest, and he wondered if Talia had some ulterior motive that was, in fact, _not_ in the Empire's best interests.

Maybe the poor Breton he incriminated was, in fact, innocent. But Klyn had done enough bad things to innocent people in his life; this was just another tally mark in the rows upon rows of his sins. A short visit to the Temple of the Divines later might be in order.

Klyn surveyed the strategy room more thoroughly this time around; he'd only gotten a passing glance when he'd stolen the loot from Legate Caesennius. He still had the gold in the pockets of his uniform, and he felt it weighing him down.

There was a map of Skyrim spread out on the table, with blue and red flags stuck in it to detail the progress of the civil war. When Klyn had first crossed the border from Cyrodiil, he'd had no idea that Skyrim had been so divided. Ulfric Stormcloak had really started something.

Three Imperials marched into the room then—General Tullius, the female legate with the fierce expression, and a man Klyn had never seen before wearing a yellow sash over his chainmail.

“General,” Talia said, standing at attention.

“Agent,” he returned. “Who is this?”

“A new recruit,” she informed him coolly. “I would like to recommend him to you as an additional agent to plant in Riften.”

Tullius raised an eyebrow. “And you are his . . . recruiter?”

“Per se.”

He turned to Klyn. “Son, what is your name?”

“Hawkeye,” Klyn answered promptly, standing up from the bench.

“Why do you wish to join the Legion?”

 _I don't really,_ Klyn thought, but then he realized what this could mean for the Guild. As long as he kept his distance from the goings-on of the war, his position inside the Legion could serve his fellow thieves quite well.

“I believe that Skyrim should remain within the Empire,” he stated. That's what they wanted to hear, wasn't it?

The legate spoke up then; it appeared she didn't remember Klyn from Helgen. “And what skills do you have?”

“I'm an archer.”

“We have plenty of archers,” Tullius growled.

Talia rolled her eyes and spoke up then: “He'll be our connection to the Thieves Guild.”

“The Legion does not deal with thieves,” the man in yellow said.

“It deals with me, Commander,” Talia said sweetly, and the commander laughed in response. She turned to the legate and the general. “He'll be valuable for discreet operations. And it won't hurt having the underground of Riften on your side when you take it from the Stormcloaks.” She lowered her voice. “And judging by his superior marksmanship skills, he, ah, would be a good candidate for the Initiative.”

The three Imperials stiffened and regarded Klyn with more interest now.

Eventually the legate nodded. “I agree, Talia. Tullius, sir?”

“Very well,” the general relented. He addressed Klyn. “I am General Tullis; I should hope you know that by now. This is Legate Rikke and Commander Caius of Whiterun. You and Talia will be posted in Riften, to await further orders from Solitude.” He gave a crisp nod. “Commander, why don't you take Hawkeye to Antonius and give him a Legion-issued weapon? And Hawkeye . . . welcome to the Legion.”

Moments later, Klyn followed the balding commander out of the castle and into the training yard.

“Who's Antonius?” he asked as they passed under one of Dour's stone arches.

“You've never heard of the Man of Iron?” Caius asked, raising an eyebrow. “He's the finest blacksmith in the Empire. You know, hails from the Imperial City, son of Helvintus Stark?”

Klyn shrugged. “I guess we ran in different circles,” he mused.

Caius led Klyn into the Solitude Blacksmith, where an indoor forge had been set up. Only the most skilled blacksmiths could work in such cramped quarters; it was too dangerous for most, and some said the fumes of the fire salts could drive one mad.

The Imperial working the forge did not look mad, however; his brown eyes were intelligent and he had a dark, neatly-trimmed beard. Strewn about the shop were armor sets and contraptions and weapons of which Klyn had never seen the like, not even in the Imperial City; clearly the man had an inventive streak. Hopefully he knew what he was doing.

“Antonius,” Caius said. “Meet Hawkeye, a new recruit.”

Antonius gave Klyn a flash of his white teeth. “Hi,” he chirped, and went back to what he was doing.

“Antonius,” Caius repeated. “He needs a new weapon.”

Klyn didn't see why, exactly. His long bow was standard-issue, and of course he had his bound bow spell in case he needed a more powerful weapon. But he would never say no to a free weapon. If it was shit, he could sell it or see if Cynric might want it as a joke.

“Then take him to Beirand outside,” Antonius replied. “Heimvar— _Heimvar!”_

A disheveled-looking Nord came running in from the other room. “Yes, master?”

“What are you doing?”

“Um, I don't—”

“You're _not_ sharpening those axe blades, isn't that right?”

“Sorry, master, I'll get on it right away.” The man scurried off.

“Thank you,” Antonius said, rolling his eyes. “Caius, go away.”

The commander looked as if he wanted to punch the smith. “This soldier comes recommended by Talia,” he said slowly, through gritted teeth. “Tullius wants him to have a new bow.”

“Then why didn't you say that before?” Antonius asked in an exasperated tone. “By the Nine, man.” He turned away from the forge and gave Klyn a once-over. “Archer, huh? I've got just the thing. You'll love it.”

He walked over to a chest and rummaged around in it for a few moments before pulling out a black bow with glowing red accents. The blacksmith seemed very proud of it.

“It's Daedric, you see?” he said excitedly. “One of the most powerful bows out there. Here.” He tossed it to Klyn as if it were but a piece of firewood.

Klyn caught the bow in his right hand and felt a chill run up that arm. These kinds of weapons were forged with the hearts of Daedra to give them strength. He could only imagine what kind of damage an arrow shot from this bow would do.

Antonius was still fussing about the shop, pulling out packs of arrows from nooks and crannies. “These . . . are enchanted with frost and this set, this set I love. Each arrow has a spell of fireball infused in it. Explosive arrows. Amazing, am I not? And here, some regular ones to boot.”

Klyn accepted the three packs of arrows—ebony, Dwemer, and Daedric, respectively. He now had a fair arsenal in his possession.

“I thank you,” he said. “But forgive my asking, er, Antonius—why do they call you the Man of Iron? Is that your smithing moniker?”

Antonius laughed heartily. “Yes, yes, it's something like that. You'll see in good time, my friend.”

He clapped Klyn on the back. “Caius—”

The other Imperial bristled. _“Commander_ Cai—”

“Whatever; I think I know what's going on here,” Antonius declared with a twinkle in his eye. “Is our friend Hawkeye here in the Initiative too now? That makes, what, four of us?”

“Above your pay grade,” Caius grumbled.

“Then I take it as a 'yes.'”

Caius rolled his eyes and turned to leave.

“You know you love me, _Commander.”_

“I really don't.” He motioned to Klyn to follow him out of the shop. “Come on.”  
“Although you still have to tell me what's going on with that frozen elf—” Antonius called after them, but the shutting door cut off his words.

Talia was waiting for them outside. She leaned against the wall with a dangerous smile playing about her perfect lips.

That was the moment Klyn realized he was in way over his head.

 


	11. The Summerset Shadows

Sun's Dawn, 4E 202

 

Klyn and Talia stalked up the snow-covered path, watching and listening for Altmer. It was already well into the night by the time they'd finished talking with Torsten Cruel-Sea and Niranye in Windhelm at the request of Delvin; luckily Uttering Hills Cave wasn't too far from the city and their journey so far had been swift.

Their mission was to dismantle a band of high elves who thought themselves some kind of “rival Thieves Guild,” as if that phrase had any real meaning. Simply put, they were pretentious oafs pretending that they had some sort of code of honor when they ransacked tombs and looted corpses for valuables. Klyn had two focuses in mind regarding the mission: retrieving a silver locket that belonged to the Cruel-Sea family and taking care of the guild's leader, an elf called Linwe—whom Niranye feared above all else. The other elf was a savvy merchant in Windhelm's marketplace who had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd; she could prove to be a useful fence later on.

Talia motioned that she would scout out ahead by using the hand signals that they had come up with. She and Klyn had been partners for a month now, working jobs for the Thieves Guild and occasionally reporting Stormcloak movements to the Legion. It was clear that Talia's allegiance did not lie with the Empire, though; her loyalty belonged to Maven Black-Briar, and her alone. The scarlet-haired Nord lived in Black-Briar Manor and served as Maven's personal spy—and assassin, if Klyn guessed correctly. Now that he had seen her in action more times than he could count, Klyn knew better than anyone that Talia was a force to be reckoned with.

The Black-Briars controlled Riften and had a special relationship with the Thieves Guild. Mercer frequently sent Klyn on jobs for Maven, which made he and Talia closer allies than he'd originally expected them to be. And the Black-Briars secretly sided with the Empire, which was why Maven had instructed Talia to ingratiate herself with the Legion; in essence, she served as a human “gift” to strengthen their alliance—that is, until Maven needed her back in Riften. Commander Caius had claimed that the Legion did not deal with thieves, but they certainly dealt with the Black-Briars; Maven was bending Jarl Laila Law-Giver's harsh stance on the war bit by bit each day. Eventually Riften would be entirely sympathetic to the Empire, if only in theory and not in name.

Even despite the deception, Klyn and Talia had grown closer. Talia was certainly still closed-off, but she was a good partner: efficient and effective. They worked well together, whether they were thieving, spying, or making the occasional hit.

Now Talia signaled that there were two guards posted outside the cave entrance, and Klyn readied his Daedric bow. He had learned to fashion his own custom-made arrows from Balimund, and found them to be quite useful on quests such as these. Klyn crept up behind Talia, who had found a good hiding spot behind a snow-laden bush next to the cave's opening. From there they could safely observe the two guards pacing about a makeshift camp. They wore armor that looked very similar to the Guild armor Klyn now wore himself—how unoriginal.

Klyn aimed his bow at the guard farther from the cave entrance, which would allow Talia to take care of the closer guard. Although Brynjolf and the others typically did not condone violence on jobs, this was no mere burglary. This was taking down a band of honorless thieves who plagued Eastmarch and tarnished the Guild's reputation.

Klyn loosed the arrow, watching as it hit its mark, right between the Altmer's eyes. The elf's body crumpled to the ground with a dull _thud,_ attracting the attention of his partner. Talia dashed into position behind the other guard and slit his throat with her dagger; it was all over within a matter of seconds. Two lives extinguished, just like that.

Out of habit, Klyn muttered a half-hearted prayer to the Divines that these elves' souls might find peace. He doubted they deserved that much, judging by what Niranye had said about these “Summerset Shadows,” but he prided himself on not sinking quite to their level.

Klyn followed Talia to the wooden doors that barricaded the opening of the cave. No doubt this place had been some sort of mining operation back in the day, or perhaps a skooma-smuggling hideout. They opened the doors a crack and slipped inside.

The pair found themselves in a rocky tunnel with patches of slippery ice on the walls and floor. A cold breeze blew through the long tunnel, suggesting another opening somewhere in the cave. They progressed warily, their way lit only by dimly-glowing lanterns. Eventually they found their feet sinking into several inches of snow that had blown inside. The cistern was a paradise compared to this place.

Klyn heard a noise up ahead, and ducked behind the skeleton of something very large and very old that had crawled into this cave to die. Two more guards patrolled an open area where the tunnel diverged into two. Without a word or a sound, Klyn took out one and Talia took out the other. Klyn looked down at the tracks and blood in the snow; there was little point in trying to cover up the fact that an entire band of Altmer had been destroyed. Besides, their deaths would serve as a message to any other up-and-coming guilds that the Thieves Guild was here to stay.

“You take the right tunnel, I'll take the left,” Klyn whispered to Talia, and they split up. Klyn made his way down his side, which opened up into a cavern holding a campfire, cooking stove, and several practice dummies—a poor setup compared to the practice room in the sewers of Riften.

Another duo of guards stood around the campfire, warming their hands and chatting idly. For thieves, they weren't very watchful. Klyn observed Talia creeping out from the other tunnel. She hid her slender body behind one of the practice dummies, and then threw a knife into the back of one of the guards.

The remaining elf whipped around and spotted her, but before he could draw his own dagger, Klyn let an arrow fly straight into the base of his skull. He slumped down on top of his fallen comrade.

Talia stalked forward and opened the chest next to the cooking stove, revealing a decent amount of gold. “You mind?” she asked, shoveling the coins into her knapsack.

“Not at all,” Klyn replied, looking about the cavern. He approached a wooden door and cautiously opened it. It appeared to lead into some sort of buried building that looked similar to the ancient forts littering Skyrim.

Talia followed him into the next room, where they discovered a great stone staircase. Just as Klyn was about to descend, Talia pulled him back and put a finger to her lips. Klyn listened. There were faint footsteps coming from a passageway below them. It was too awkward an angle for his bow to be of any use, so he stepped back and let Talia deal with the next thief.

As soon as the elf appeared in sight, Talia dropped down onto him and cut through his throat. She never seemed to run out of daggers. Klyn wondered where she could possibly keep them all, and then blushed at the thought. He hurried down the staircase to join her.

They faced yet another corridor. At the far end, a figure sat on a wooden chair in front of what looked like a row of prison cells. Klyn fired an arrow into his neck and he died instantly. Then he motioned for Talia to follow him deeper into the thieves' den.

They crept into a dining area off to the side, where a red banner hung with some sort of golden star sewn on it; no doubt this was the Summerset Shadows' symbol. Klyn shook his head; he was here to kill Linwe and recover a silver amulet, but he had to admit, destroying that banner _would_ bring him some satisfaction.

Talia crept into another room to search for more thieves and loot while Klyn opened a nearby door that led into what looked like a bedroom.

Inside, a hooded figure immediately jumped up from the bed, and based on Niranye's description, Klyn was confident that this elf was Linwe. He fired an arrow into the elf's bare shoulder to slow him down, and then pulled out his trusty steel dagger for close combat.

Linwe drew his sword with a growl and limped towards Klyn, spitting curses at him. The Altmer wore his armor to bed—now _that_ was dedication.

Klyn was a bit deterred; he didn't have much to defend himself with. A dagger against a sword? He might be better off firing arrows at the elf, even at this close range. But it was too late to draw his bow again. Linwe charged at him, swinging his sword wildly, as if he had just woken up—which he probably had. Klyn ducked under the attack and made a pass at the elf with his dagger, but the Altmer jumped out of the way and hit the blade out of Klyn's hand. It clattered to the floor and its tip shattered, rendering it useless.

Klyn did his best to dodge Linwe's attacks, but eventually he turned just wrong. He staggered as he felt the elf's sword rip through the leather armor on his back, just narrowly missing the string of his bow. He turned to face the Altmer and found himself trapped in a corner, with no easy way out. Linwe advanced slowly, a smirk stretching across his face.

But his confidence was his undoing. Klyn had just enough time during the elf's approach to string his bow with an arrow and lodge it in Linwe's forehead.

Breathing heavily, Klyn reached around and tried to feel the wound on his back. It wasn't deep, but his Thieves Guild armor was completely shredded. He knelt by Linwe's side, feeling for a pulse. The elf was dead.

Dead men needed no armor. So Klyn began stripping both himself and the dead Altmer of their armor. Once he'd laced on the black armor of the former thief and adjusted it to his size, he feigned firing an arrow. The lack of material covering his upper arms allowed him better movement—something he'd always complained about when wearing the standard-issue Guild set. In the pockets of the armor he found a hefty sum of gold and the silver locket that Torsten Cruel-Sea had described to him. Mission accomplished.

Klyn did a quick search of the ornate chest in the corner of Linwe's room. Inside, he found a variety of valuables—all likely stolen from their rightful, dead owners in Windhelm's graveyard. He took the loot to give to Niranye; he would entrust her with seeing the pieces returned to their proper place.

“Klyn?” Talia called loudly from the other room. “What's taking you so long?”

“Found Linwe,” he replied. “Any more of them?”

“I got the last two,” she said, coming into the bedroom. “They were sleeping like babies . . . Um, Klyn . . . Why is he naked?”

“Like the new look?” Klyn turned around to show off his new armor.

“I guess so. A little cold, isn't it?”

“Not noticeably.”

Talia shrugged. “So what now?”

They retreated from Linwe's bedroom and stood in front of the banner. Klyn crossed his arms and smiled devilishly at the symbol of the fallen guild. He crossed over to it and took a candle from the candlestick that had been illuminating the banner. He held its flame under the edge of the cloth, and the corner caught like a bale of hay in a forest fire. Soon the entire banner was charred and disintegrating into ash on the floor.

“That'll send them a message,” he declared happily. He turned back to his partner. “Anything interesting in the other room?”

“Just their sleeping quarters,” Talia replied, and yawned. “I could use some sleep myself, actually.”

“And a meal.”

“You read my mind.”

Klyn looked around at the empty lair. “Why don't we just stay the night? It's not like there's any more Summerset Shadows to worry about.”

Talia hesitated a moment before agreeing. “Alright. But we head out at first light.”

They sat down on benches opposite each other in the dining room. The messy thieves had left plenty of cheese and bread on the table. The bread was a little stale, but it was better than nothing, which is what they would have eaten otherwise.

“Where's your dagger?” Talia asked suddenly, after a good ten minutes of comfortable silence.

Klyn looked down to his belt as a reflex. “Oh, it broke when I was fighting with Linwe,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “I'll get another one back in Windhelm.”

Talia was quiet for a few moments, and then pulled another dagger from a hidden pocket. It looked similar to an ebony dagger, but had a blue-tinted blade. One-of-a-kind, most likely. Just like its owner.

She held it out to Klyn. “Here.”

Klyn took the dagger with some hesitation. “Are you sure?”

“Think of it as a gift.”

“A gift for what?”

“I don't know, friendship?” Talia chuckled to herself. “Just . . . keep it. I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” Klyn said, a bit startled. This wasn't much like Talia at all. He examined the blade again. “Where did you get this?”

“It's from the Dark Brotherhood,” Talia said. “Astrid gave it to me.”

“Who's Astrid?”

“Our leader. She's . . . well. She's everything I've ever wanted to be. I grew up admiring her, even though she's not ten years older than I am. We were trained by the same Sister. She's dead now.”

Klyn considered for a moment, and then asked, “How long have you been in the Dark Brotherhood?” He knew that at any point, Talia might clam up again and refuse to speak with him for the rest of the night. Even after knowing her for a good while, he hardly knew anything about her past—strange for a Nord. Nords generally adored telling stories about their past battles and tales from where they were born. But not Talia.

“For as long as I can remember,” she answered quietly, pushing a chipped plate around on the table. “My mentor, Adiana, found me on her way back from a contract in Dragonstar. I'd been abandoned, so she took me in. She was a Speaker at the Wayrest Sanctuary before . . . well.”

“So you're from High Rock, originally?” Klyn could barely contain his surprise. If anywhere—other than Skyrim, of course—he'd assumed Talia might have come from Cyrodiil.

“Yes,” Talia said. She took a swig of wine. “I lived there for eight years, training with Astrid under Adiana. It was an interesting Sanctuary. One of a kind. Women only. 'Daughters of the Night Mother,' we called ourselves. The other Sanctuaries called us 'Black Widows.'” She paused. “And then we had to leave. Most went south to Cyrodiil. Astrid and I left for Skyrim. And we've been here ever since.”

“The Brotherhood lets you spend a great amount of time away from the Sanctuary,” Klyn remarked. “From what I could tell in Cyrodiil, the assassins practically lived in their Sanctuaries.”

“Astrid and I had . . . a falling-out,” Talia said, ducking her head. “I'm still a Brother. I just . . . I have more to offer the world than killing.” She finished her sentence firmly, and Klyn could tell they were done with the conversation.

They were silent for a few minutes. Then Klyn spoke: “Thank you.”

“The dagger's practically worthless. It's just harder to break.”

“No, thank you for trusting me,” Klyn clarified.

Talia's pale cheeks turned slightly pink, and she looked away. “You're my friend. First one I've had in a while.”

They retired to bed in the shared sleeping quarters shortly after that. Klyn removed his new armor carefully and placed Talia's dagger next to it, admiring its shine in the dim light of the room. She took the bed next to his and turned her back to him: another sign of trust.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face that night.

 


	12. The Truth

Rain's Hand, 4E 202

In between her missions and assassinations for Maven Black-Briar, Talia spent most of her time with Klyn, although she kept her distance from the Thieves Guild; she didn't much trust the lot of thieves. But after she'd accompanied Klyn to the Ragged Flagon and met Delvin—apparently he was a friend of Astrid's—Talia's stance on the Guild had softened considerably. Now she spent the occasional night in the cistern, sharing a bed with Klyn. Rune always gave Klyn hell for it, but he didn't mind having a warm body to sleep next to—especially when it was Talia's.

“Oi, love-birds,” Brynjolf barked as he passed by Klyn's bed. They'd slept in that morning, recovering from a night of heavy drinking at the Flagon. They'd been celebrating pulling off a particularly daring heist in Whiterun. “Delvin's been looking for you, Klyn. Best see him soon.”

With a reluctant sigh, Klyn stretched and rose from his bed. He donned his armor as Talia slipped into her Brotherhood attire. They grabbed a bite to eat at the communal dining table before making their way to the Flagon; that was where Delvin usually hung about.

He was sitting in his customary spot near the bar when they found him. He gave them a cocky grin as they approached. “A good night, was it, then?” he leered.

Klyn ignored the jab. “You needed something?”

“Well, not me,” Delvin said. “Syndus over there's been whining about you for the last few hours or so. Drivin' me batty. Doesn't want anyone else to take this job but you. You ask me, he's playing favorites.”

Syndus was the Guild's local fletcher. He'd moved in recently, eager to strike up a relationship with the Thieves Guild since its fortunes had improved. He, Klyn, Cynric, and Niruin had formed a close bond over their preference of the bow over other weapons, but Klyn and Syndus had grown especially close; they frequently talked about the modifications Antonius had made to Klyn's bow and arrows, and Syndus was interested in expanding his inventory to include such items.

“Syndus has a . . . a job?” Klyn asked, unsure if he'd heard Delvin right. Syndus was a merchant; he wasn't one for asking favors of the Guild members. The Bosmer generally kept his head down and looked the other way when it came to the reality of the Guild's dealings.

“That's what he told me,” Delvin said with a shrug. “Now scurry on over there before I shut 'im up myself.”

“I'll stay here,” Talia announced as soon as she saw Vex appear from around a corner. They had similar attitudes and had become good acquaintances. Neither woman really had much in the way of real friends. “Have fun.”

With a somewhat bewildered expression, Klyn approached Syndus's booth, set up in one of the alcoves. “What's this Delvin tells me about a job?” he asked, attempting to make light of the situation with a cheeky grin.

The Bosmer merchant looked to be in an especially foul mood today. His red war paint and mohawk generally scared away the timid, but today even Klyn flinched when the Bosmer fixed him with his glare.

“Damn her,” he spat. “Damn that Nord bitch!”

“Calm down,” Klyn exclaimed. “What's going on, Syndus?”

The elf pinched the high bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Those bastards at Arnleif and Sons cheated me out of my gold. I paid them a good, fair price, and they sent me shoddy arrows. Look at these!” He pulled out a couple of bunches of subpar arrows, secured together with twine. “Even the Forsworn have better ammunition than these . . . these . . . ugh!” He threw them down in disgust. A couple splintered apart when they hit the floor.

Klyn had to agree. The arrows looked like they'd been made hundreds of years ago and had only now been unearthed from an ancient crypt. Several of the remaining shafts were nearly cracked-through—useless. Whoever had sold these to Syndus knew they were giving him the short end of the bargain.

“I haven't heard of that store before,” Klyn remarked.

“Arnleif and Sons Trading Company,” Syndus spat, as if the name were a curse. “The slimiest bunch in Markarth—and that's saying something.”

That made sense now; Klyn had never ventured as far as Markarth before, preferring to stick to the eastern reaches of Skyrim whenever he could. He still couldn't shake the fear that he might run across Viarmo and risk his wrath.

“So what sort of revenge are we looking for?” Klyn asked with a sly grin.

The Bosmer returned it with one of his own—which looked much scarier under the war paint. “Just a simple numbers job,” he said. “I don't care what you do, just make it believable. And make it hurt.”

“Will do, my friend.”

As he walked back towards Talia and the Flagon proper, Klyn smiled to himself and thought, _This will be interesting._

~

Klyn couldn't help but marvel at Markarth when the guards let them through the heavy stone gates and into the city. A stream gurgled through the center of the thoroughfare, and Dwemer buildings rose high into the sky, hugging the walls of the ravine the city had been built in. Markarth could very well give Solitude a run for its gold in terms of grandeur.

Arnleif and Sons Trading Company was the first business on the right side of the street. Before entering, Klyn and Talia loitered outside and went over their plan.

“You do the numbers, I'll take care of the distractions,” Talia said with a wink. She'd changed into a tight-fitting red gown for the occasion.

“Thanks for coming along,” Klyn said. “What would I do without you?”

“You'd probably be in jail.”

“Yeah, probably.”

They pressed through the bronze doors and emerged in a low-ceilinged shop. A stone counter ran all the way around the square room, and a variety of wares were stacked against the walls. The whole place smelled of dust.

There was a Nord woman overseeing the counter, and a Breton man checking on the inventory in the back. No other customers were in sight, but it was only just after opening; surely someone else would come in soon. They had to work fast.

Talia immediately made her way towards the Breton, while Klyn had a friendly chat with the shopkeep—a woman named Lisbet. She was clearly the brains behind the operation, and the woman whose name Syndus had cursed. As they discussed the recent Forsworn attacks, Klyn watched Talia out of the corner of his eye; she was batting her eyes at the Breton, who was completely falling for the act. She slowly led him to the front of the shop, near Klyn and Lisbet.

“Feel free to look around,” Lisbet said with a cheery smile.

Klyn smiled back and excused himself. He walked around for a few minutes, pretending to browse; he paid special attention to the dusty old targets propped up against the back wall, in case Lisbet had noticed the bow slung on his back.

Then he quietly walked over to a low table upon which a ledger sat wide-open; it'd been a while since he'd seen a merchant that foolish. He dipped a nearby quill in the inkwell and began to forge the numbers for the trading company. Not only would the discrepancies cause them some amount of confusion, they would eventually add up to a great debt if they went unnoticed for even only a week. Klyn did his best to copy the handwriting, occasionally glancing up to check on Lisbet and the Breton. The former was absorbed in . . .whatever it was she was doing, and the Breton looked like a puppy following Talia around, attending to her every need. Her attire definitely caught the eye.

He set the quill back in place and wandered over back within sight of Lisbet, fiddling with a few barrels of vegetables in the corner of the room. Talia looked over at him and he gave her a barely-perceptible nod. She flashed the Breton a quick smile and motioned Klyn over.

“I'll, ah . . . come back later,” she promised the man, giving him a suggestive look. Then she nodded at Klyn, commanding him to follow her out. They'd done this act many times before: the beautiful noblewoman and her rugged bodyguard. It generally worked very well for the assassin and the archer-thief.

“You get it?” Talia asked when they stepped out onto the street.

“You have to ask?”

She brushed him off. “So . . . what now? It's not even noon yet.”

Klyn bit his chapped lip. “Well, while we're here . . .”

“Ah.” Talia nodded in understanding. Klyn had told her long ago about his past; she knew the entire story of how he and his brother had separated. Even though it was around twenty-five years later, he still hadn't given up hope that he might learn something more about where exactly his brother had disappeared to.

They asked around town, but no one had ever heard of a Nord named Bernt before, or else they didn't deign to give them an answer. They'd made it nearly halfway around the city before they found someone who could tell them anything useful.

Before Klyn stood an Orcish blacksmith hammering away at a sword; he approached her with some hesitation and even more doubt. It was unlikely she knew anything about Ulfric Stormcloak's old army.

“Need a new blade?” she grunted as Klyn stepped closer to her.

“No thanks,” he replied. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me more about the retaking of the Reach.”

She stopped her hammering at the forge and gave him a disbelieving look. “You a historian or something? I'm sure Understone Keep has a book on that subject.”

“No, no,” Klyn stammered. “I'm looking for someone. Someone who served under Ulfric Stormcloak. My brother.”

“Ah. Then today's your lucky day. I actually know someone who fought under that man,” she said, and then blushed. “He's, er . . . Well, we're very good friends. I'll leave it at that. The name's Mulush. Mulush gro-Shugurz. He's the overseer of the smelting that goes on down there.” She gestured to the smelter further down the ravine.

“Thank you,” Klyn said fervently. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Um, tell him I say hello when you get over there,” the blacksmith stuttered shyly.

“Of course.”

Klyn and Talia headed down the hill to where the smelters were already toiling away in the sun. A gruff-looking Orc stood watching them with his arms crossed.

“Let me handle this one,” Talia whispered, and then said in a louder voice to the Orc, “Excuse me.”

The Orc grunted and turned around. “You're not one of my workers. What are you doing here?” he said, narrowing his eyes at Talia. When he noticed Klyn, he narrowed them even more.

“Mulush gro-Shugurz?” Talia asked in a gentle, soothing voice.

Her tone didn't seem to have any effect. “What do you want?” he growled. “We have work to do.”

“I know that,” she said sympathetically, “and I'll let you get back to your work as soon as I can. But I was asked to deliver a message from that lovely blacksmith up there”—she pointed in the general direction of the forge—“and she said it couldn't wait.”

Mulush's eyes widened, and suddenly he didn't seem so tough anymore. “Ghorza?” he gasped. “What did she say?”

“She said that if you were free tonight, she'd love to see you,” Talia lied. “I know it's not my place to say, but you seem to be in a fine position with her, in my opinion.”

The Orc's tusks curved into what could only be a smile. He muttered excitedly to himself, words neither Klyn nor Talia could hear.

“Oh, and while I have you,” she continued sweetly, “I was wondering if you remembered any of the soldiers you fought with against the Reachmen all those years ago. Does the name 'Bernt' ring any bells?”

“Erm, let me think,” Mulush said, and frowned in concentration. “A Nord, I'm assuming? I think he went to the Mine. My sister's warden there. She'll tell you what you need to know.” Something one of his workers did distracted him then. “Uh, excuse me.” With that, he stalked off and started yelling at one of his underlings.

“Nice job,” Klyn complimented Talia when the Orc was out of earshot.

She shrugged. “That's my speciality: telling men what they want to hear,” she said, flashing him an evil grin. “Now, let's go find that mine.”

It wasn't a very hard find, located close to where they stood already. They trekked through the low tunnel into the belly of the mine. The inside looked terrible; rock was strewn about everywhere and the caves smelled like piss. Klyn couldn't imagine why Bernt would have come here. He'd come to fight, not to strike at rock with a pickaxe.

The tunnel emptied out into a cavern; a high bridge spanned its length, leading to another passage higher up. Klyn and Talia climbed the stairs at the other end and made it halfway across the bridge before a female Orc confronted them, armed to the teeth.

“Cidnha Mine's for prisoner scum only,” she growled. “Keep out.”

“Prisoners?” Talia echoed. “What do you mean?”

“This is a jail, owned by the Silver-Blood family. We use the prisoners to mine for ore. It's the most secure prison in Skyrim,” she bragged, baring her tusks. “Throw scum in, close the gates. No one gets out. So unless you're here to dig, you don't belong here.”

“Your brother Mulush told me there was a Nord named Bernt here,” Klyn said, pushing past Talia. “Do you remember anyone like him?”

The Orc scowled. “All you Nords look the same to me,” she said. “But I suppose the name sounds familiar.”

“Why was he put in here? He fought under Ulfric Stormcloak to take the Reach _back_ from the Forsworn.”

“Oh, one of those,” the warden said knowingly, and spat on the ground before continuing. “After the Incident, the soldiers who refused to follow Ulfric were thrown in here. He wanted to rebel against the Empire. Not all his men agreed. Mulush and a few other locals just retired. But the rest Ulfric had thrown in here. Paid the Silver-Bloods good coin for it.” She grinned.

“Surely they had a sentence? A set amount of prison time?” Talia asked, but she didn't sound too hopeful.

“Not my business,” the Orc replied. “Think I remember that Nord, though. Carted his body out after a nasty brawl one day. Reminds me, we gotta make a round checking for shivs sometime soon. Now, leave; you got what you came for. You don't belong in here.”

It took Talia a few tugs before she finally pulled Klyn after her. He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. He'd always suspected that Bernt might have died—he wasn't an experienced fighter, by any means—but that Ulfric Stormcloak _himself_ had ordered his imprisonment? He couldn't believe it. He knew the man had murdered the High King, but Bernt . . .

Before he knew it, Talia had sat him down in a pub of some sort. Or maybe it was an inn. He didn't care. She perched next to him on a barstool, and ordered some Black-Briar mead from the barkeep. A bard was playing a sad tune on his lute by the roaring fireplace. How fitting.

Klyn drank far more than he had the night before, and it was only barely past noon. Talia sat beside him in silence, nursing her single bottle of mead. She liked to keep a level head, and in this case, Klyn didn't blame her. She'd probably never seen him this distraught before.

He was proud to say he didn't openly weep. A few tears leaked from his eyes, but he managed to remain somewhat dignified. But he was wracked with grief.

“I just . . . don't understand,” he said eventually, in a dull, broken tone. “He can't be gone. At least, not like that.”

Talia put a hand on his arm, but didn't say anything.

He continued, mumbling the words into his flagon. “He wanted to die in a battle. Fighting alongside Ulfric Stormcloak. For a cause, or something. Not in some petty brawl, in a prison. He never belonged in a prison. I'm the thief. It should've been me.”

“No, Klyn,” Talia said. “He made his choice. You've made yours. And from what that Orc said, it sounds like he was true to himself until the end.”

Klyn gave her a bleary look.

“He was loyal to Skyrim, and to the Empire,” Talia said softly. “He fought for what he thought was right. If there's anyone to blame, it's Ulfric Stormcloak. You had no part in this.”

He nodded, but clenched his hands into fists. Ulfric Stormcloak _did this._ He was responsible for Bernt's death.

“If I ever see that bastard again,” Klyn growled, “I'm going to put an arrow through his eye.”

Talia looked a bit taken aback by his declaration, but she continued to comfort him. They both knew what it was like to lose someone close to them. They spent another few hours in the warm light of the inn, listening to the bard's bittersweet songs and remembering who they'd lost.

 _I swear to Akatosh,_ Klyn thought, downing the rest of his mead, _I'll bring down Ulfric and his rebellion, even if it's the last thing that I do._

 


	13. A Call to Arms

Rain's Hand, 4E 202

They left Markarth later that day, in the afternoon. They trudged side-by-side down the main road, letting an easy silence fall between them. The green grasses, rocky cliffs, and twisting trees of the Reach were no longer beautiful to Klyn; he would forever remember this hold as the place where his brother was murdered. Markarth was a city of betrayal, corruption, and death.

And the next time he returned to Windhelm, well . . . if he wasn't careful, he might just stop by the Palace of the Kings after selling stolen goods to Niranye.

 _No,_ he told himself, _don't throw your life away. Bernt wouldn't want that. Ulfric can use the Voice; that's how he killed High King Torygg. He could strike you down with just one word._

But something bothered Klyn about that. The Voice . . . had Ulfric used it on him before, just before he'd left Helgen? He couldn't be sure. Perhaps Klyn was immune to its effects. But either way, it would be foolish to attempt an assassination in the seat of Ulfric's power.

In the meantime, he would just do his best to serve the Legion. General Tullius and Legate Rikke would give Ulfric the swift justice he deserved.

Still, Klyn could hardly appreciate the blue waters of the Karth River or the gentle mists that hung over it. The waterfalls' roars sounded hollow in his ears, and even the wild goats and elk seemed to drag their feet as they pranced away from the two travelers.

“You're quiet,” Talia observed, and then awkwardly cleared her throat. She'd never been good at this kind of thing.

Klyn let her off the hook. “I'm okay,” he said earnestly, looking her in her soft green eyes. They were wide and deep and full of concern for him. “Honestly. Vengeful, perhaps, but . . . it was a long time ago.”

She nodded, and scuffed her feet on the road. She'd changed back into her Dark Brotherhood armor as soon as they passed the farms and mines clustered outside Markarth's walls. Klyn had stood guard as she traded out her useless gown for the garb of her fellow assassins.

They were nearly to Fort Sungard now. Klyn fondly remembered their first mission together; Talia had lied to him about her real objective, of course, but he didn't hold it against her. Even as a Guild member, he probably wouldn't have helped her frame an innocent Legionnaire just to help Maven Black-Briar and her diabolical plans.

He looked sidelong at Talia, who stalked forward with purpose, eyes alert. She was ruthless, cunning, and yet—he admired her. She might not have the strictest moral code, but she was always professional. Graceful, even; he'd accompanied her on a minor assassination or two, and the way she wielded her knives made his heart flutter. With admiration, of course.

But now that he thought about it, he wondered exactly what he felt for this woman. They'd known each other for long enough now—two good friends against the world. But just friends.

The sun was just beginning to set, tingeing the blue sky a slight pink. They reached a low point in the river, where small, grassy islands dotted the water and the mists were thick and cool.

Talia stopped in her tracks and turned around to face Klyn. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she demanded, crossing her arms. She looked more bemused than annoyed.

And then she stumbled. Gasped. The edges of her figure shone red and pulled away from her body, as if her very soul were being drained.

From around the bend in the road, a group of vampires emerged; they charged forward, hands curled into spell-casting claws, daggers raised. Hungry for blood.

Klyn strung his bow and shot a couple of them down, but then the remaining two were upon them, fangs bared. One pounced upon the easy prey, still holding the draining spell over Talia as it tried to tear at her neck. The other flung its knife at Klyn, who sidestepped and shot an arrow through its throat. Its own filthy blood spilled upon the ground. Its glowing eyes widened, as if it couldn't believe that it had been brought down by a mere mortal.

Klyn pulled the other vampire off of Talia, who was weakly striking it with one of her many daggers. Klyn was so enraged that he held it in a headlock, pressing his arm hard against its convulsing throat until the life left its body and some of Talia's own pure blood spilled from its gaping mouth. He released the corpse in disgust and knelt to tend to his companion.

“Here,” Klyn said, pulling her up and supporting her weight, “let's get off the road.”

He pulled her onto a grassy outcrop on the river and laid her down in a sheltered spot, surrounded by boulders and trees. That way, anyone who came across the slain vampires wouldn't immediately find the two Nords huddled behind the rocks.

Klyn kept a wary eye out for mudcrabs as he gently tipped an extra-strength healing potion into Talia's gasping mouth. The draining spell that the vampire had put on her had been a strong one; the vampire must have been that mistwalker sort, or whatever it was they called themselves. Klyn had had limited run-ins with the undead, but based on this experience, he was starting to sympathize less and less with those afflicted with _Sanguinare Vampiris._

Talia coughed and spluttered as she finished the potion. “Gods,” she croaked. “I feel like death.”

“You almost _were_ dead.”

She stared up at him, and for the first time, she looked scared. He'd never seen such fear in her green eyes before. “Thank you,” she whispered fervently, and then let her eyelids flutter shut. The spell must have taken a lot out of her.

He held her in his arms, idly stroking his fingers through her soft red hair. It was starting to grow out again, falling just past her shoulders and curling slightly more than it used to. He looked down at her resting figure; she was beautiful. He hated to think it when she was in this state, but he couldn't help it. She'd never been the damsel in distress, and now that she was just the slightest bit helpless, her hard edges seemed to soften. She was more innocent when she was vulnerable.

Klyn sighed quietly. He knew what this was. He loved her. But he wouldn't do anything about it—she would give him a good beating if he tried anything. And he didn't blame her.

She'd told him once that the reason she found it so hard to trust anyone was because of how the Wayrest Sanctuary had disbanded; they were betrayed by someone on the inside. He still didn't know what exactly happened, because she refused to talk about it, but he knew that it would take her a long, long time to trust him half as much as he trusted her.

So he would content himself with what he had, until she was ready—even if she never was. He would gladly do that much for her, or anything else she asked of him.

Talia opened her eyes then, and they had their former flame back. “Goddamned vampires,” she croaked. “I can't believe I let my guard down like that.”

“Hey, I didn't see them coming, either,” Klyn said. “Me with my eagle eye.”

She snorted. “Some eye.”

“Oh, so _you_ want to be on lookout duty from now on?”

“Shhh,” she said. “Look.”

The sun was setting now in a concert of color. It flared a bright, deep orange as it touched the horizon, sending rays of light out across the cloud-dotted sky. The night approached behind them, sending deep blues ahead to meet the strokes of pink and red and yellow spreading from the setting sun.

“I'm glad we're here,” Klyn murmured. Even though Talia was injured.

She stiffened in his arms, and then relaxed slightly. He was sure that she knew what he felt for her; she'd probably known longer than he had himself. As long as she didn't push him away, he would stay by her side. And it seemed she was okay with that, at least for now.

They watched the sun set together, comfortable and content—the assassin and her thief.

~

They spent the night at Fort Sungard, welcomed with open arms by the presiding officer. After all, they were Legionnaires, and enjoyed all the benefits that that implied. They took their time returning to Riften, taking the southern road that passed through Falkreath and skirted Helgen. Klyn watched the sky for dragons all the while, but it was a quiet day for the scaled beasts. Helgen had been ruined completely, although he saw distant silhouettes perched along its walls. Bandits had moved in after the Legion retreated, most likely.

The journey was a long one, even though they were walking at a normal pace. Talia had recovered quickly; the spell's effects were devastating for the hour or two after the initial casting, but wore off completely in the night. She was as good as new—albeit with a new scar on her neck—the next morning.

They spent another night in Ivarstead, at Vilemyr Inn. They splurged and booked two separate rooms. Klyn wasn't disappointed in the least; they spent enough nights together in the Thieves Guild cistern. It was actually nice to have a room to himself for a change.

They set off at a more relaxed pace the next day, but still made it to Riften well before supper. Vekel hadn't restocked the Guild's food or drink lately, so they decided to head out to the Bee and Barb for a more relaxed evening meal. They found a table for themselves in the corner and had a hearty meal of mead, salmon, dumplings, and baked potatoes.

“You okay?” Talia asked after they'd finished and were just starting to get up.

“Of course,” Klyn replied easily.

“No, really.” She gave him a pointed look. Markarth had only been a few days ago, and the Cidnha Mine warden's words still echoed in his ears.

Klyn sighed and ran a hand through his short hair. “I think so,” he said. “I'll be okay. Don't worry.” He paused. “How are you?” he asked, gesturing to her neck.

She reached up to touch it. “Doesn't look infected, last time I checked,” she said. “But I'll check with Herluin Lothaire if you want.”

“Don't want to catch _Sanguinare Vampiris,_ ” Klyn commented.

“Certainly don't.”

“Or Ataxia. Or Rockjoint. Or—”

“I get the point,” Talia interrupted with a roll of her eyes. “I'll see Herluin as soon as we get back to the Ratway. Promise.”

Klyn held the door of the Bee and Barb open for her, and she walked through. They passed a guard carrying a torch, who looked deadly bored.

“Evening,” Klyn said to him. He was on good terms with the Guard, especially since his old friend Caldak was one of them. Caldak played it fast-and-loose with the Thieves Guild, and vouched for Klyn's gold whenever there was a minor misunderstanding between the thieves and the guards.

This man wasn't Caldak, but Klyn recognized him all the same. His name began with an R or something . . .

“Evening,” the guard replied, turning to face Klyn and Talia. “You heard the news? Ulfric Stormcloak's rallying his troops in Windhelm. Warriors like you should join him. It's the age of oppression, you know.”

The guard continued on his way, but Klyn stopped in his tracks. He couldn't move, even though he wanted to. The words “age of oppression” repeated themselves over and over in his head until they blended together and sounded like a foreign tongue, echoing the same phrase again and again and again: _Hah, mir, dal . . . Hah, mir, dal . . . Hah, mir, dal . . ._

“Klyn?” Talia's worried voice sounded as if it had come from underwater.

Klyn turned around and began marching toward the front gate. He had to get to Windhelm. Ulfric Stormcloak _needed_ him, him personally. He had to go. Immediately.

“Klyn!” Talia yelled at him, grabbing his arm. But he just pulled away from her with inhuman strength. “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

Somehow, her words didn't affect him. She just didn't understand. She didn't know that he had a _mission._

“Where are you going?” she demanded, walking backwards in front of him, trying to push him back with all her strength.

He just stepped around her. “Windhelm,” he said happily, eyes glazed. “I'm going to Windhelm.”

“Why?”

“Ulfric Stormcloak needs me.”

“What?” Talia gasped. “Klyn, don't do this. Don't kill him.”

“He is our High King.”

Talia's mouth dropped open, and she almost let Klyn escape right then. By now he'd made it onto the main road and was heading north to Eastmarch.

“Klyn, don't do this,” she begged. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're stronger than . . . whatever this is. Come back to the cistern. Come see Herluin with me.”

Klyn ignored her.

“Do you want me to become a vampire? I think I'm sick,” she lied.

He walked on without any hesitation.

She followed him long into the night, begging and pleading with him, until it was clear that he would not stop. She made one last attempt at stopping him just before the marshlands. She threw her entire weight at him and almost toppled him to the ground.

Klyn was angry. Why couldn't she understand? Why wouldn't she just leave him alone? He pushed her off of him, making her fall on her knees.

Talia picked herself up calmly. “I don't know what's happened,” she said solemnly, “but I'm going to fix it.” Then she stalked off, leaving Klyn behind on the road.

And he continued on to Windhelm, feeling the beat of Stormcloak drums in his heart and the rallying cries of Skyrim's true High King in his ears.

~

When he entered the Palace of the Kings, two figures at the end of the long hall were busy conversing. Another man stood off to the side, immersed in reading a long scroll. As Klyn approached, he heard the conversation more clearly. Ulfric Stormcloak sat upon his throne, talking with a fearsome-looking Nord dressed in a Stormcloak officer's armor, bearskin and all.

“How long are you going to wait?” the officer growled. Klyn guessed that he was Ulfric's second-in-command, or something of the sort.

“You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message.” Ulfric's reply was a statement, not a question. Powerful, commanding. Just like a true king.

“If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet.”

Ulfric smirked. “Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don't you think?”

“So we're ready to start this war in earnest, then?”

“Soon.”

At that moment, Ulfric noticed Klyn's presence. He waved off the other man and looked down at Klyn from his high throne. Something about the man made Klyn want to kneel, but some part of him, deep inside, refused. He stayed standing before the throne, swaying slightly.

“Only the foolish or the courageous approach a Jarl without summons,” he declared. “Do I know you?”

“I was at Helgen,” Klyn replied obediently.

“Ahhh.” Ulfric's eyes lit up in recognition.

There was something odd about his eyes; they weren't the blue or brown Klyn had expected them to be. There was a faint, glowing red coming from them that made them hard to look at directly. Klyn kept his eyes downcast.

“Yes,” the Jarl continued. “Destined for the chopping block, if I'm not mistaken.”

Klyn merely nodded.

“I know which one you are,” the other Nord said confidently, but then he narrowed his glowing eyes at the archer before him. “But for the life of me, I can't remember why I chose you . . . Did you serve in the retaking of the Reach?”

“No, my Jarl,” Klyn replied. “My brother did.”

“Your brother . . . What was his name?”

“Bernt.”

“Hmm. I think I remember him,” Ulfric mused, tapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. “He didn't want to rebel against the Empire. He was one of those who went to the Mine, isn't that right?”

“Yes,” Klyn answered through gritted teeth. His blood was boiling. This was the man that killed his brother. He was responsible for Bernt's death.

_Hah mir dal._

But Ulfric Stormcloak was Skyrim's true High King. Surely Bernt had done something wrong, had done something to deserve his fate. Ulfric was only ever fair. He would be a great ruler when the Stormcloaks retook Skyrim from the blasted Empire.

Ulfric observed Klyn's struggle with a fierce smile on his face. His expression didn't look human. It was more . . . beast-like. It reminded Klyn of the dragon he'd seen in Helgen.

But surely that was because the dragons were on Ulfric's side. Even the beasts of old hated the damned Imperials.

“So, Unblooded,” Ulfric drawled, “what is your wish?”

Klyn couldn't say anything but, “I wish to serve you.”

“Oh?” Ulfric feigned surprise. “If that is truly so, won't you kneel before me?”

Klyn's stance wavered, but he did not kneel.

Ulfric stood from his throne, red eyes flashing. “I said, _kneel.”_

The power of his words forced Klyn to the ground, where he bent his head. It felt so wrong, and yet he had no choice. He knew he would follow this Nord anywhere, whether he liked it or not.

Ulfric only smiled.

All was going according to plan.

 


	14. The Jagged Crown

Second Seed, 4E 202

Klyn arose from his bed in the barracks early in the morning. He had spent the last few weeks in a perpetual daze—eating, sleeping, training, fighting. The Stormcloaks had made some progress on the western front, but not enough. The attack on Whiterun was imminent. But just last night, Ulfric had ordered Klyn to report to him at the break of dawn for a special mission.

And Ulfric's wish was Klyn's command.

Apparently, Ulfric had no qualms about using a Legionnaire as his henchman. No Imperials had come after him yet, and Klyn had provided some useful intel. But he was only a lowly agent; he wasn't kept informed of the goings-on higher up in Castle Dour.

Klyn marched himself to the throne room, fully alert and ready for action. Of course, he found Ulfric and Galmar Stone-Fist, his housecarl, deep in conversation; it seemed as if they were always discussing something or other. Muffled words passed between the two until Klyn came into earshot.

“The Jarls are upset,” Galmar said in a hushed tone. “They don't all support you.”

“Damn the Jarls,” Ulfric muttered.

“They demand the Moot.”

“And damn the Moot!” the Jarl roared. “We should risk letting those milkdrinkers put Thorryg's woman on the throne? She'll hand Skyrim over to the elves on a silver plate.”

“All the more reason then,” Galmar urged. “The crown would legitimize your claim.”

“A crown doesn't make a king.” Ulfric slumped back on his throne, groaning into his hand. Yet his eyes were bright with interest in whatever crown Galmar was talking about. Klyn waited patiently a few paces away from the throne, still listening.

“No, but this one . . .” Galmar started to say.

“ _If_ it even exists,” interrupted Ulfric.

“It exists,” Galmar insisted. “And it'll be the symbol of the righteousness of our cause. Think about it. The Jagged Crown! It heralds back to a time before jarls and moots. Back to the time when a king was a king because his enemies fell before him, and his people rose because they loved him. Skyrim needs that king. You will be that king, Ulfric. You must be.” That must have been the longest speech Klyn had ever heard Galmar make. He was generally a man of few words; he preferred bludgeoning over talking.

Ulfric sighed. “You're certain you've found it?”

“When have I ever been false with you?”

“Fine. I'll send the Unblooded here with you. His other mission will have to wait.” He turned to Klyn. “Fancy a crawl through a moldering dungeon to see if you can't stir up Galmar's Jagged Crown?”

“It will be there. You'll see,” Galmar grumbled.

“It would be my honor,” Klyn said with a deep bow to the Jarl.

Galmar eyed Klyn suspiciously. “Shouldn't he take the oath now, at least?” he asked. “We still haven't done it with this one.”

“No,” Ulfric said with a devilish smile. “He already did so when we first met. At Helgen. Didn't you, Unblooded?”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Klyn murmured.

Galmar still didn't look convinced, but he shrugged it off. “Come with me, then,” he said to Klyn. “There is much preparation ahead of us. We march for Korvanjund tonight.”

~

Galmar, Klyn, and a couple more soldiers from the Windhelm barracks met up with the rest of the group just outside the ancient Nordic ruins of Korvanjund. It was a dark, snowy night—quite unusual for Second Seed. Occasionally Secunda and Masser could be seen through the heavy, thick clouds, their light reflecting off the unblemished white snow. The clouds would provide good cover in case they needed to approach with stealth—although the Stormcloaks rarely used or needed to use that tactic.

There was hushed whispering among the men. Apparently there were Imperial soldiers stationed at the ruins already. Other men were questioning the existence of the ancient relic they were hunting, the Jagged Crown. A few Stormcloaks were arguing about whether it was worth risking their lives for some old piece of bone.

There was also a familiar face in the squadron, Klyn noted, a Nord with braided golden hair—none other than Ralof, the Stormcloak with whom Klyn had escaped Helgen not even a year ago. They grinned at each other and saluted.

Ralof was about to come over and talk to Klyn when Galmar growled for his attention. Klyn whipped around to find himself face-to-face with Ulfric's best general.

“What's the Legion doing here?” he demanded, kicking up a cloud of snow with his fur boot. “Damn Imperial spies . . . Well, should be fun for us, at least. They don't seem to know we're here yet. Ready to spill some Imperial blood for Skyrim?”

Klyn could only say, “I'm ready. Let's go get them.” Somewhere the back of his mind buzzed with protest, but it was too muddled and muted to bother him.

“That's what I like to hear,” Galmar chuckled. He turned to the other Stormcloaks then. “Listen up. Those Imperials aren't here by coincidence. Their spies must've found out we know about the Crown, and they don't want us to have it. But they won't stand in our way. I know some of you are ex-Legion and may know men on the other side . . .”

Klyn looked away. He knew plenty of men on the other side.

“But remember this: they are the enemy now and they will not hesitate to kill you,” Galmar continued. “Keep your wits about you and watch your shield-brother's back. Ulfric Stormcloak is counting on us to bring him back that crown, and that's exactly what we're going to do.”

The soldiers all nodded and readied their weapons. Klyn drew his bow. Luckily he still had enough of his fancier arrows to get by on this mission; without a steady supply from Antonius or Syndus, he was forced to awkwardly fashion his own. Somehow he wasn't as good at fletching anymore; these days he was simply too distracted. It was as if there was something he was forgetting. Something important . . .

Galmar drew his axe. “Follow me,” he ordered, jogging over to the ruin. “Quickly and quietly now. I want their guts on the ground before they even know we're here.”

They crept up over a snowbank and looked over the mass of ruins underneath them. The arches and remnants of buildings had long since crumbled, but there appeared to be some kind of structure still standing at the far end of the plot of land. Imperial soldiers perched here and there on the ancient walls, looking out for their enemies. The Stormcloaks were expected.

Galmar nodded to Klyn, and he crept around the edge of the ruins while the rest of the group clambered down below; he needed a high point from which to shoot. At the sound of Galmar's hair-raising war cry, he began picking off Imperial lookouts with the accuracy from which he got his name. One shot, one kill. Just like Cynric taught him.

While Klyn watched from the borders of the ruin, the other Stormcloaks charged in below. A battle ensued, but the Imperials were vastly outnumbered and succumbed quickly. Ulfric's soldiers left no man standing.

Klyn dropped down onto one of the stone staircases and met up with Galmar, Ralof, and the rest. They were huddled in front of an iron door that he assumed led into the ruins.

“That's the way I like it,” Galmar said with an air of victory. “Short and bloody. They never knew what hit them. But do not make the mistake of underestimating the Legion. Plenty of them are Nords, same as us. We had the advantage of surprise this time, but things won't be so easy from here on out.” He paused. “Enough talk. Let's go kill some Imperials.” With that, he opened the door and they filed inside the ancient temple.

The Imperials had breached many of the chambers within the ruins, and the squadron was forced into battle in close quarters every few rooms or so. Galmar sent Klyn ahead to take down the lookouts, and then waited for his signal to order the rest of his men into the fray.

The overwhelming force of the group of Stormcloaks took care of most of the Imperials quickly and without much trouble, but their own did fall. In one of the bloodier encounters, Klyn saw a Stormcloak fall, a sword piercing her lung. Her scream was cut off with a disturbing gurgle. Another man lost his head, his body falling limply to the ground with a few nervous jerks of his limbs. Klyn knew these people, had fought and drank with them time and time again, but he didn't feel their loss as he should have. Instead, he felt strangely calm about their demise, as if he had wished it all along.

Most of their battles ended within minutes—a few, within the half-hour. And always, always, bodies littered the ground, blood seeping onto the ancient stones below.

Occasionally they would come to a dead-end, the path blocked by rubble or locked doors—no doubt the work of the Imperials ahead of them. Galmar typically chose to send Klyn ahead to look for shortcuts or secret levers, giving the command with a hard glint in his eye. Klyn could tell from Galmar's smirk that he expected Klyn to fail, but he always managed to find a way through for the Stormcloaks. It wasn't as if Klyn had a choice; Galmar was his superior, and he served directly under Ulfric. His word was law.

Soon they entered a small chamber where two imperials jumped out from behind a couple of large urns and charged at the group. Klyn shot one in the heart and Galmar took care of the other, lodging his axe into the man's head.

One of the Stormcloaks at the front of the group gasped soon after. “What in the nine holds is that?” she cried.

Klyn peered around Galmar at the corpse that had elicited the soldier's gasp. It was dressed in ragged, filthy armor and its flesh hadn't entirely rotted off its bones yet; Klyn was familiar with the sight of these creatures that roamed the depths of Skyrim's ruins.

“Draugr,” said another soldier. “Ain't you ever seen one before?”

“No,” replied the first. She shivered. “And I'm not sure I'm better off for it now neither.”

“Steady,” Galmar warned. “A few dusty bonewalkers aren't going to stop us any more than the Imperials could. We're not leaving until we get what we came for. Now, let's keep moving.”

So they continued on, deeper into the halls of Korvanjund. Ralof and Klyn kept each other company in the ever-increasing darkness, joking about the ancient Nords' love of staircases. It seemed as if half of their movement was up or down yet another set of stone steps.

Occasionally Klyn lamented the Stormcloaks' swiftness; he saw room after room of treasure pass by, usually guarded by devious traps. Had he been here on a Thieves Guild mission, he would have gladly braved the blades of a swinging axe trap to find some good loot, but now all he cared about was following Galmar's orders and pleasing Ulfric Stormcloak.

Eventually they reached a hall with low ceilings and carvings on its walls. Burial urns and candles were scattered about, the wicks flickering with magicked fire. They must have been bespelled into staying lit forever by the mages of old who had once practiced here.

While the other soldiers muttered about the hall—Galmar called it “the Hall of Stories”—Ralof and Klyn strayed from the group. Klyn investigated a pile of Imperial bodies clustered by a circular carving at the end of the hall, while the other Nord picked up a piece of ebony twisted into the shape of a dragon's claw and dusted it off on his sleeve.

“What do you make of this?” Ralof asked, turning the claw over in his gloved hands.

“Seems like a puzzle,” Klyn muttered to himself, tracing over the carvings with his bare fingers. Ralof offered him the claw and he took it. He matched the symbols on the carvings with those on the claw, and inserted the piece of ebony into the center of the wall; it fit perfectly. Like magic, the rings began spinning until they locked into another position, and the entire wall slid down into a wide slit in the floor with a terrible grating sound.

“Good job,” Galmar complimented Klyn, and then pushed past into the next passageway. “Alright, everyone!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Keep your guard up. No telling what we'll find down here.”

The deeper they delved into Korvanjund, the more dilapidated the ruins became. Now vines hung from the ceiling and ancient books rotted in heaps upon the floor. They passed some rather ominous, black caskets standing upright against the walls of a large chamber, and Klyn shivered with dread. He didn't often explore the ruins of Skyrim, but he knew enough to guess that these caskets weren't good news.

The noise of the Stormcloak squadron marching about was suddenly drowned out by the groaning of a gate on the far side of the room, where a soldier had pulled a handle to raise it.

“That's done it!” Galmar crowed, slapping the soldier on the back to congratulate his success. “Alright, boys, let's get moving. We've got more . . .”

A great _crunch_ sounded then. Draugr exploded from out of each of the upright caskets in the room, shaking off dust and centuries of sleep. They drew their weapons mechanically, ready to bring down the intruders, their eyes glowing blue in the dim light.

Galmar was unperturbed. “Steady now!” he called. “They may be uglier than Imperials but they'll go down just the same.”

Klyn drew his bow and shot a few from farther off while the rest of the Stormcloaks engaged the remaining undead. Times like this were when he appreciated the role archers were given in battle; this way he wouldn't have to fight up close and personal with the reeking undead. They went down easily, their brittle bones cracking under the heavy blows of iron and steel.

A couple soldiers began searching the bodies. It was said that draugr sometimes carried the gold and jewels that had been buried with them. Klyn knew from experience that the ancient Nords' corpses were ripe with loot.

Klyn followed the squadron into some sort of crypt. It was a large one, and terribly dark. Ralof ducked back into the last chamber to grab one of the torches burning nearby, and then proceeded to light the sconces in the crypt so that the group could better search for the Jagged Crown. Klyn looked around him as Ralof lit up the room; it was more of a throne room than any proper burial place. The remains of a Nord sat upon a throne, with a casket on either side. This must have been the king who was buried with the infamous crown.

Done with his torch duties, Ralof approached the throne. “Hey,” he called over his shoulder, “I found a crown over here on this corpse. Is this the one we're looking for?” He gestured to a crown that looked as if it were made of bone and the teeth of a large creature—maybe even a dragon.

At his words, the caskets on either side broken open to reveal a pair of draugr. Ralof staggered back in shock.

“Ralof!” Galmar yelled in exasperation. “Get away from there, fool!” He rushed ahead to do battle with one of the bonewalkers, while Ralof dealt with the other.

But as they fought, the remains of the dead king stood up—he was no mere pile of bones, but a wraith. His ornate armor shone in the candlelight and his battleaxe glimmered ominously. The sight of his bright blue, sightless eyes reminded Klyn of Ulfric somehow, especially when the creature Shouted at Ralof and knocked the Nord to the stone floor.

Klyn fired an incendiary arrow at the ancient king and set his rotting flesh ablaze, giving Galmar an opening to hack at the wraith with his axe. But the king defended himself, and the two blades clanged together, sending the Stormcloak shuddering away. Ralof had recovered from his fall and rushed to attack the draugr lord with his sword.

Together, the three of them—with some amount of help from the remaining archers in the group—slayed the undead king. He roared again in that ancient language that Klyn had heard Ulfric speak on occasion, and then collapsed into a small heap of glowing bones.

“Alright, get the crown off that draugr!” Galmar commanded, and Klyn obliged, plucking the piece from the skull of the dead king. “Get to Windhelm with the crown as quick as you can,” Galmar ordered, and then added, “Tell Ulfric he owes me a drink.” He turned to his men. “Everyone but Ralof and Hamvir, accompany him back to the Palace. We'll stick around here and see if we can find anything useful.”

Klyn was now the de facto leader of the group; after all, he held the Jagged Crown. He tucked it into his knapsack and led the way through the crypt, past a wall with ancient writing on it and out a back exit. The group following him was large and uncoordinated without Galmar's strong hand to guide them. Klyn doubted he needed this much protection on the short trip back to Windhelm, anyway, but if a dragon attacked, then he would be plenty glad of the extra help.

They left the interior of the ruins and descended once more into the rock-strewn basin in front. The sun was just beginning to rise over the distant hills.

But the battle was far from over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting! It's all finished now, so I'll be done posting by the end of the week! Thanks for the support!!


	15. The Initiative

Second Seed, 4E 202

The halls of Korvanjund lay behind the Stormcloaks, and a ragtag group of Imperial soldiers blocked the way ahead. They were certainly an odd assembly; very few even wore Imperial colors.

Klyn recognized several of them, Commander Caius among them, wearing his standard yellow Whiterun livery. Talia was there, but Klyn's mind remained blank as he looked at her. She was just another enemy for him to dispatch. He peered closer with his sharp eyes and picked out Antonius Stark among the group, although the cocky blacksmith looked nothing like himself. He wore a full set of armor now, painted scarlet and gold. His boots had a strange, fiery aura about them—magicked, as much of his work was—and carried only a simple crossbow.

The rest were even stranger. There was a scraggly-looking looking man with a dark head of hair and ragged civilian clothes draped on his skinny frame. He certainly didn't look like he belonged on a battlefield at dawn. A masked figure stood next to him, wielding a warhammer that sparked with lightning magic. His metal mask was wrought in the shape of a dragon's head, and Klyn had to admit, its appearance was very similar to the face of the dragon he'd seen in Helgen. And finally, he made out a handsome Altmer carrying no weapon, but a shield that was typically used only by the Nords who inhabited the island of Solstheim, just off the north coast of Morrowind.

Seven Legionnaires—if they could even be called that—against the majority of a Stormcloak squadron? They must have been drunk on skooma when they came up with this plan.

Klyn made sure the Jagged Crown was secure in his knapsack before drawing his bow. The other soldiers beside him unsheathed their weapons, waiting for his mark to strike. He wasn't one for yelling out fierce, rousing battlecries, so he merely nodded to the soldiers on either side of him, and fired an arrow directly at Antonius.

The sun rose over the horizon and the rocky ruins exploded into battle.

The arrow bounced flimsily off Antonius's reinforced armor, but then its head let loose a magic lightning storm that knocked the blacksmith to his knees. The Stormcloaks charged ahead with wild roars and cries, believing themselves invincible against such a weak enemy.

The raven-haired Imperial that Klyn had pegged for a lost civilian underwent a great change then: his face twisted and contorted until it had grown the furry snout of a beast, and it took Klyn a good second to realize that the rest of the man was changing as well. In nearly the blink of an eye he shifted completely from a normal-looking—if somewhat disheveled—man into a fearsome werewolf, who now sprinted toward the terrified troops and tore them to pieces.

The Altmer wasn't as incompetent as he'd seemed, either; he bravely charged forward into battle and battered the Stormcloaks with his strong shield, clearing a path for the other warriors. The masked man raised his magicked warhammer and struck the ground with it, sending tremors through the ranks of Stormcloaks. Only Caius and Talia appeared to be fighting with any semblance of normality.

Klyn loosed arrow after arrow, but it was clear that the Stormcloaks were already losing the battle. When Antonius recovered from Klyn's spell, he cast another and his enchanted boots let him jump to impossible heights, from which he slammed himself down on unsuspecting soldiers. Soon the Stormcloaks were battered and confused, struggling to regroup.

“Stormcloaks!” Klyn yelled in a last-ditch effort to rally them. “For Ulfric!”

“For Ulfric!” they echoed back, and surged forward, their courage renewed.

A group of soldiers surrounded the werewolf and attacked him with all the strength they had. A couple threw their personal amulets of Stendarr at him and the silver burned into his skin. The beast yelped in pain, and after receiving a nasty beating from the Stormcloaks and their axes, ran away, abandoning the fight completely. One down.

A Stormcloak Klyn recognized as Gretta—her usual post was personal guard duty for Ulfric—wrested Antonius's crossbow away from him and put bolt after bolt into the gaps in his armor. They fizzled with magicka, rendering him immobile, and he collapsed to the ground. Immediately the Altmer with the shield abandoned his ongoing fights to tend to his wounded comrade.

Klyn fired a shot to distract Commander Caius as another Stormcloak crept up behind him and stuck him through with his sword. The wound was clearly fatal. The commander slumped over, blood gushing from the hole in his abdomen and pooling around his fresh corpse. When Antonius revived, he yelled at the sight of his commander's body. He staggered up, with the Altmer supporting him.

There was a great roar then, and a black dragon passed by directly overhead. The masked warrior, who had been effortlessly slaughtering Stormcloaks right and left, immediately halted mid-swing to stare up at the sky. The next Stormcloak who attacked him found that his sword went right through the warrior's body, leaving nothing but air as the illusion of him shimmered and disappeared.

Despite almost half their forces gone, the high elf and Antonius rallied and were fighting the remainder of the Stormcloaks. There were only five of them left, Klyn not included. He was about to join the fray when he felt a blow on his back so strong that it sent him to the ground.

He whipped around to find Talia standing above him, wearing gloves that sparkled with magicka. She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn't let her. He swept her legs with his own, sending her tumbling to the ground, which gave him enough time to draw his ebony knife. Vaguely he recalled that she had given it to him.

He slashed at her but she ducked out of the way of every stab, until she managed to wrestle it from his hands and fling it far away. They fought fist-to-fist, punching and kicking and sidestepping and dodging, matching each other almost exactly. When Klyn struck, she blocked. When she attacked, he jumped out of the way. When Klyn pulled her hair, she bit his arm. Klyn had dropped his bow in the middle of their fight—it had only been getting in his way—but the Jagged Crown, too, had fallen from his knapsack and now rolled down the hill toward the remaining battlers.

Talia saw Klyn reach for his bow and she punched him in the jaw. She rolled over him and grabbed the bow before he could get his hands on it. “Sorry about this,” she snarled, and knocked him in the head with the back of his own bow.

And all was black.

~

He awoke in a room lit by torches, strapped down to a cot with leather strips. He strained against them to no avail. His head was pounding, throbbing. The pain was nearly unbearable. He still heard Ulfric's voice in his head, repeating those three words over and over again until he couldn't stand it, he was dying because he was disobeying Ulfric, he was dying because Ulfric had killed Bernt, Ulfric had killed Bernt and . . . Klyn didn't want to serve him any longer.

He collapsed back onto the bed, panting. Sweat dripped from his brow. He could hate Ulfric Stormcloak freely now. Whatever had been influencing him before was no longer present in his mind. At last, he could breathe.

“Are you Klyn now?” a voice near his ear asked, and he turned to find Talia lounging in a chair by the head of the bed. Although her stance was relaxed, there was a crease between her eyebrows and her skin of her bottom lip had been bitten through.

“Yeah,” he managed to say. “I'd better be.” He moved to get up but realized he was still bound to the bed.

“I'll take these off now,” Talia said, and cut through the leather with an ebony knife. _His_ ebony knife. She set it back down on the little wooden table next to the bed.

Klyn sat up and rolled his wrists. “Thanks,” he murmured, rubbing the red marks on his arms.

“Sorry about the head.”

“Think that cured me.”

“I hope so,” she replied with a quick smile that didn't touch her eyes.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered, dropping his head into his hands. “I couldn't get him out of my head. He controlled me. He must have set a spell on me. Three words, but I can't remember what they were . . .”

“That's the dragon language,” Talia explained. “You weren't at fault. Ulfric is. You were his puppet, but he was the one pulling the strings. And we're going to get him for it.

Klyn shook his head. “I killed people. Scores of Imperial soldiers. Commander Caius died because of me. I remember it all.”

“Klyn, don't do that to yourself,” she said. She sat down next to him on the bed. “Don't do it.”

He sighed deeply. “I know, I know,” he muttered.

“So . . .” Talia looked around the room, as if she could find a change of subject floating in the air with the dust. “Do you still want the knife?”

“Of course I do!”

“Sorry. That was supposed to be a joke.” She shrugged, picking up the knife and flipping it expertly in her hands. “It's yours. Naturally. Even though you _did_ try your best to give it back to me.” She flashed him a cheeky grin.

Klyn had to laugh at that. “That I did,” he said. She extended the knife to him and he took it. He glanced around at the thick stone walls of the room. “I take it we're in Castle Dour?”

“Yes. And I have orders to take you to General Tullius soon.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Of course not. He knows very well what a Shout can do,” Talia said darkly. “But he's hoping you have intel on Stormcloak movements. They've been pretty quiet lately.”

Klyn nodded, his lips pressed into a grim line. He knew exactly what the Stormcloaks' silence meant. He tried to stand up, but his legs were still a bit too shaky. He collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh of defeat.

“Just take your time,” Talia said soothingly.

“I even remember pushing you down on the road,” Klyn murmured, throwing an arm over his face. “What happened to you after that?”

“I rode straight to Solitude.”

“Rode?”

“You're not the only one who knows how to steal horses, you know.” She gave him a quick smile and then continued with her tale. “I told Tullius what happened. And then . . . well. We assembled all those warriors you saw at Korvanjund. They're the Legion's contingency plan. The Initiative.”

“I've heard of it.”

“You're in it. If you want to be.”

Klyn raised an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “Might as well start paying my debt back to the Legion somehow. Although you have to admit they didn't do the smoothest job back there.”

“We're working on it,” Talia said in a flat voice. “There have been difficulties.”

“Will I get the full introduction when I can stand?”

“Not quite. Caius, as you know . . .”

“Right.” Klyn clenched his jaw.

“And two of ours disappeared,” she said. “Brutus and Odah. Brutus is the werewolf.”

“The Imperial.”

“According to our scrolls, he was personally cursed by Hircine.” Even Talia sounded impressed.

“What'd he do?”

“He still won't tell us.”

Klyn considered the man's situation; it would certainly be a living hell to be on a Daedric's Prince's bad side. No wonder he'd looked so ragged. “And the other one?” Klyn asked. “What did you call him . . . Odah? Strange name.”

“Stranger man,” Talia replied. “Or _being,_ I should say.”

“What do you mean?”

Talia waved his question away. “I can't explain it to you,” she said. “I still have trouble believing it. Rikke will tell you. Let's get you up now, take you on the tour, hm?”

She helped him up, and this time he was steady enough to walk on his own. Talia led him through the corridors of Castle Dour and into the strategy room, where the high elf and Antonius were already waiting. No sign of Tullius or Rikke yet. Klyn noticed that the Jagged Crown was resting upon the table in the center of the room, confirming that the Stormcloaks had lost the Battle of Korvanjund.

“Antonius,” Klyn grunted in greeting as he lowered himself into a chair. He was still quite weak.

“Hawkeye,” the blacksmith responded. “How's the head?”

“Better, thank you. I knew your were a blacksmith,” he remarked, “but I didn't know you were a fighter.”

“A fighter and a lover.” Antonius smirked.

Klyn caught Talia rolling her eyes. She had known Antonius longer than she'd known Klyn by a few years, but a few months ago she had confided in Klyn that she didn't trust the Imperial an ounce.

The Altmer leaning against the side of the wall walked over to Klyn and stuck out his hand. Klyn shook it, straightening his shoulders. He hadn't realized the elf would be so _tall;_ from across the battlefield at Korvanjund everyone looked more or less the same height.

“Legate Rulendir,” the elf introduced himself. “Pleasure to meet you as _you_ , Hawkeye.”

“Right. You're the elf with the shield,” Klyn said, still appraising the Altmer. He was brawnier up close, as well.

“That's not all; he also has a tragic past,” Antonius added in a mocking tone.

Rulendir shot the Imperial a glare, and then sighed as he turned back to face Klyn. “I grew up in Solstheim,” he clarified, “in a lowly House of Dunmer mages who, ah, liked to experiment with magic, and potions.”

“And they gave him the strength of a god,” Antonius interrupted snidely.

Rulendir shrugged. “That's what they say.”

Klyn just nodded, at somewhat of a loss for words. All these strange characters around him—suddenly even Talia was looking normal.

Legate Rikke entered the room then. She looked about the room with a deep frown on her face. “The General isn't here yet?” She addressed this question to Rulendir; he was the only soldier present equal to her rank.

“Not yet,” the Altmer replied with a polite dip of his head.

Rikke looked down at Klyn sitting comfortably. “Hawkeye. Glad to see you up.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Oh, before I forget, I believe Talia was telling me that _you_ would explain who the masked man at Korvanjund was?”

Antonius coughed out a laugh and Rulendir grinned as Rikke let out a sigh of exasperation. “I hate having this argument,” she mumbled, and then appeared to mentally prepare herself. “You're aware that Skyrim is plagued by dragons?”

“I was at Helgen,” Klyn said. “I saw the dragon that destroyed it.”

“That dragon's name is Alduin, and he is my brother,” a deep voice boomed from the entrance of the room.

Everyone started and turned to look at the newcomer. It was none other than the mysterious warrior himself, still wearing his red dragon mask over his face. His armor looked otherworldly and ancient, as if it belonged in Sovngarde, and he carried his warhammer as if it were only a hollow wooden stick.

“That's Odah,” Talia murmured to Klyn. He nodded back, unable to tear his eyes away from the striking figure.

The “Odah” character set his hammer down on the table that held the map of Skyrim that detailed the progression of the civil war. “I am no mortal,” he rumbled, turning to Klyn. His eyes glowed a bright white behind his mask. “The mask I wear binds my soul to this inferior form, but it allows me to walk among you. I am _Dov._ Dragonkind, in your speech.”

“You're . . . a dragon?” Klyn said doubtfully. He'd been told a lot of outlandish stories today, but this was a bit much. He was beginning to suspect that Talia was playing an elaborate practical joke on him.

“ _Geh,_ ” Odah replied. “I am Odahviing. Alduin, the World-Eater, is my brother. He is misguided and cruel, and seeks to destroy your world. Now he has Shouted the _mun_ called Ulfric Stormcloak into submission.”

“You mean, using those words in your language to control people,” Klyn said flatly. “Yeah, been there.”

“You understand.” The dragon-man seemed pleased. “The Stormcloak _mun_ is not of his own mind. I fear my brother is using this petty war as a distraction for a more dastardly plot.”

Rikke bristled. “It is _not_ a petty war!”

“ _Krosis._ Apologies,” Odah rumbled, dipping his head. He appeared to never blink, which was rather unsettling. “We must expel his influence from the Stormcloak.”  
_That would explain Ulfric's glowing red eyes,_ Klyn thought, recalling his interactions with the leader of the rebellion.

“And how would we do that, exactly?” Antonius piped up. “You've never really explained that part before. Frankly, I'm a bit bored of hearing the same speech over and over again.”

“Do not worry yourself,” Odah replied mockingly—if a dragon even _could_ be mocking. “I shall take care of my brother.”

“No.”

Everyone stared at Klyn as he stood up.

“ _I_ get Ulfric,” he declared, staring each member of the Initiative in the eye, challenging them.

Odah nodded. “I see. You seek _zinl._ You desire revenge. The _mun-_ body will be yours to slay,” he said.

At that, Klyn took his seat again, shaking just slightly—not from the exertion, but from the rage flowing through his veins. He didn't care if that black dragon was controlling Ulfric now. The Nord had been completely aware of his own actions when he threw Bernt into Cidnha Mine. And for that crime he would pay.

Now General Tullius stalked into the room with a scowl on his face. “Ah, Odah, you've finally showed up,” he growled. “Still no sign of Brutus? Oh, and I see the archer's awake. Now tell me some good news, people.”

No one said anything, so Klyn sighed and stood up again. “I guess that's on me,” he muttered, and then saluted Tullius. “General.”

“Agent.”

“I might have some information for you. Before Korvanjund I had the opportunity to learn their movements,” he explained. “As you know, Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun has decided to side with the Legion.”

“Aye,” Tullius said. “Go on.”

“Ulfric means to attack Whiterun in revenge.” Klyn paused. “What day is it?”

“Loredas,” Talia answered.

“Ah. Then, they march in two days' time.”

Rikke slammed her fists on the table. “We must rally the troops at once!” she cried.

“Not so fast, Legate,” Tullius grunted. “Hawkeye—that's your name, right?—tell us more about this alleged attack.”

“Troop morale has been slumping of late,” Klyn continued. “Especially since the Imperials secured the Jagged Crown, which was seen as a beacon of hope. Ulfric plans to accompany the troops to Whiterun and lead the assault on the city to rally his men. Whiterun is the one hold they cannot afford to lose.”

“But that would mean leaving Windhelm defenseless,” Legate Rulendir said with a frown.

“Not entirely,” replied Klyn. “Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's housecarl and second-in-command, will be there, as will the court sorcerer, Wuunferth the Unliving. They are powerful and loyal men who should not be underestimated.”

“But surely Ulfric will lead the majority of his men to Whiterun?” said Rikke.

“If what you say about Ulfric is true,” Klyn said to Odah, “then he might not need the majority of his men. He made many references to a great ally who would aid him.”

Odah clenched his fists, but his mask, of course, remained expressionless. “I will take care of my brother,” he promised solemnly.

“If you don't mind, General,” Rulendir said, “might I make a suggestion?”

“You've been fighting for longer than I have,” Tullius said with a rare laugh. “Go right ahead.” Klyn wondered exactly how old the legate was. He didn't show any signs of aging whatsoever, but that was often the way with elves.

“Take the troops to Windhelm,” Rulendir advised. “Yourselves included. Leave us five horses and alert the Whiterun guards with a courier before we ride so they can prepare their defenses. Have the courier stop in Rorikstead and go on to Riverwood to rally the other guards in the hold. That should give us enough manpower to defend the city; its fortifications are some of the finest in the province. Meanwhile, you march on Windhelm and capture it while they're leaderless. They'll never know what hit them.”

Rikke didn't look convinced by this plan, but Tullius grunted in what sounded like agreement. “Very well,” he muttered. “May the Divines be with us.”

Rulendir's plan didn't sit well with Klyn; unless the five warriors somehow became miraculously coordinated in two days, they could hardly go head-to-head with Ulfric himself. Especially if he really _was_ possessed by a dragon.

Talia led Klyn back to his room. He hadn't noticed before, but there was another cot set up nearby. She must have slept in here as well.

“What do you think of all this?” he asked once she'd closed the door behind them. “You're an assassin, not a soldier.”

“I am what I need to be,” she said simply, sitting down on his bed.

Klyn sighed, and took a seat beside her. “I guess,” he admitted. “Do you think we stand a chance?”

Talia hesitated for too long. “It doesn't matter,” she decided finally. “I have to do what's right, for once in my life. And I know that this is right.”

Klyn took her hand and she leaned her head against his shoulder. He would follow her into Oblivion. And he had a sinking feeling that he would have to.

_May we meet again in Sovngarde._

 

 


	16. The Battle for Whiterun

Second Seed, 4E 202

Preparations for the impending battle took more time than Legate Rulendir had predicted. Antonius's armor had been severely damaged at Korvanjund and Klyn was in dire need of new arrows. Antonius commandeered both Beirand and Heimvar at the smithy to aid him in his tinkering. That left the rest of the Initiative to tend to their injuries and rest up for the Whiterun mission.

They rode for the city just before dawn on the day of the attack, galloping through Dragon Bridge and Rorikstead. The towns were emptier than before; that meant many of the hold guards had volunteered to aid their brothers in arms in Whiterun against the oncoming Stormcloaks. Perhaps the odds weren't so dire after all.

It was Rulendir's decision to break their fast in the Rorikstead inn. Talia and Klyn took the same seats they had all those months ago on their first joint mission together.

“Brings back memories, doesn't it?” Klyn chuckled, taking a swig of mead. Nothing like the nectar of the Nords to calm the nerves before battle.

“Sure does,” Talia replied. She was quiet, tense.

“Something wrong?”

She pulled out one of the daggers from her belt and started to scrape at a splinter of wood on the table with the blade. “You know me too well, Klyn,” she sighed. “Gotta stop letting my guard down.”

Klyn put his hand over hers, stilling her movements with the knife. “You didn't answer my question.”

She rolled her eyes. “What?” she asked.

“Why are you here?” She frowned at his question, and Klyn added, “As you said, I know you too well.” He lowered his voice. “Why aren't we cutting and running right now?”

“Thought you wanted your revenge on Ulfric Stormcloak,” Talia said with a thin smile. “Something about an arrow to the eye?”

“So do you have a reason? I mean, aside from the 'it's the right thing to do' skeever-shit you fed me the other day.” Klyn kept his eyes locked with hers so she couldn't dodge the question again. She was never one for direct confrontation, unless it involved a good punch to the jaw.

Talia was unnervingly quiet. She tightened her hold on the knife, and finally answered, “It's personal.”

“Did he do something to you, too? Stormcloak?” The thought of it alone—that bastard doing something to her, anything, laying a single finger on her—made Klyn see red.

“There was a Stormcloak commander we captured,” Talia said, ducking her head. “Kottir Red-Shoal. He . . . he'd been enchanted by Ulfric, like you, but . . .” She clenched her jaw. “He killed himself in front of me during the interrogation. Some spell, or maybe a magic scroll. Just went up in flames, not two feet away, screaming things, things he had no business knowing.” She looked up at Klyn and he could see the pain in her eyes. “He knew things about me that no one does. Ulfric must have found out somehow, or—well, it doesn't matter. The point is, I let him get into my head. I let him get into _your_ head. And I'm here to make damn sure he dies. Today.”

Klyn swallowed and nodded. “I'm going to kill the bastard myself,” he growled.

“I know you will. And if we get out of this alive,” Talia said with a twinkle in her eye, “maybe I'll let you buy me a drink.”

~

By the time the five warriors reached Whiterun, the sun had broken through the clouds perched on the horizon and the battle was well under way. Stormcloak catapults launched flaming debris at the walls of the city while the troops inside returned fire with their own hastily-constructed war contraptions. Archers garbed in blue fabric and gray fur provided suppression fire from behind the wooden barricades surrounding the entrance to the city as the rest of their forces charged the main gates. Enemy reinforcements could be seen marching down the road to the east, streaming in from nearby encampments.

As they slowed their steeds to gauge the battle's progress, the warriors witnessed a mighty roar of war cries and the terrible groan of the gates being forced open. The city proper was now breached; the local guards needed all the help they could get.

“Cut a path through the rebels,” Rulendir ordered the other members of the Initiative. “We ride straight into Whiterun and push back from inside the city walls.”

At the elf's signal, they galloped through the hordes of Stormcloaks, Rulendir and his horse acting as the spearhead of their tight formation. The men who didn't jump out of the way were trampled under the hooves of their battle-bred steeds. They rode through the two sets of gates, over the drawbridge, and on through the main gates of the city, all the way up to the marketplace.

Houses were burning, people screamed in the streets, and guards frantically directed civilians away from the areas of battle to safe houses in different districts. The commotion and confusion were horrifying. Waging war in a city had no elegance or craft; it was mere brutality.

 _How can we possibly win this?_ Klyn wondered as he casually shot a passing Stormcloak in the back.

The warriors dismounted, sending their horses off with Whiterun guards who needed them more, and began striking down every Stormcloak they saw. Antonius fired bolt after bolt from his crossbow and pummeled the Stormcloaks who charged him with his armored fists, knocking them to the ground; Rulendir knocked more soldiers away with his shield, his amazing strength sending them flying. The elf really _did_ seem to have the strength of a god—he could easily take out five men with one blocking blow from his shield. Meanwhile Odah called lightning from the sky and sent its awesome energy through rebel after rebel, his voice deepening into a fearsome, inhuman roar that caused the Stormcloaks facing him to stagger back in fear.

Klyn and Talia fought side-by-side, he with his bow and she with her knives. Antonius had sewn a lightning enchantment into Talia's gloves only the day before; now with one well-placed punch, she could completely neutralize an enemy and render anyone she touched with them unconscious. They whirled and parried and struck around each other, always with their backs against each other. Their skill and coordination allowed them to hold their own beside the more godlike warriors of the Initiative.

But the waves of Stormcloak soldiers just kept coming. As strong as they were, the five fighters were tiring fast. Rulendir and Odah had let their guard slip and were now surrounded by a ring of rebels. Klyn nearly let himself become trapped in a similar manner, but instead he jumped through a window of a nearby store and hid inside. The glass he landed on cut into his bare arms, and he felt weak with the pain.

Outside he heard a great _crash,_ and, looking out, he observed a faraway house collapse completely. Another fell a few minutes later, and the screams of the citizens rang throughout the city. They were dying out there.

“Warriors, to me!” Klyn recognized Antonius's voice, its sound amplified by his hollow helmet.

Groaning, Klyn downed a potion and pulled himself up. He fought his way out of the store to Antonius, where the other warriors had already assembled.

“We have to secure the main gate,” Antonius said firmly, ripping open a scroll of fireball and tossing the magic into a crowd of Stormcloaks. “There's no other way to win this.”

Rulendir hefted his shield. “Follow close behind me,” he ordered. “We'll take the main gate and get those doors closed.”

They clustered behind the elf, and started a slow but steady approach on the gate. Klyn shot the oncoming soldiers from behind Rulendir's wide shield, and Odah watched their backs, striking the Stormcloaks tailing them right and left with his warhammer.

Finally they made it to the entrance of Whiterun, where they saw a fierce-looking Dunmer whirling and slashing with her double blades, slaying enemy soldiers with amazing speed. She was no mere guard; Klyn suspected she served the Jarl of Whiterun directly.

The fighting here was naturally the thickest, but with the combined effort of the Dunmer, several Whiterun guards, and the five warriors of the Initiative, they attempted to reclaim the gates. But they couldn't beat their enemies back for long—they were simply too outnumbered.

Out of the corner of his eye Klyn saw Rulendir fall to his knees and Talia shriek as the blade of a Stormcloak's axe cut through her armor. Just when Klyn was about to lose all hope and seriously consider the possibility of surrender, he heard a bone-chilling roar. The fighting slowed as the combatants looked up to find a horrific black beast perched on the parapet over the gate. It dropped down and began ripping through the throats of the Stormcloak soldiers using only its long claws and awful teeth.

Brutus, the werewolf, had returned.

With his help they could push back the Stormcloaks just far enough so they could shut the gate. They barricaded it with debris from fallen houses and broken chunks of stone, and despite the Stormcloaks' pounding, the doors didn't budge. Finally the forces of Whiterun could take a slight respite from the battle.

“Knew you would show up again,” Antonius gasped, hands on his armored knees.

The werewolf only growled, clenching his claws into fists. Klyn would not want to cross him, nor cause him any unnecessary anger.

A group of Whiterun and hold guards—as well as some fierce-looking warriors wearing furs who Klyn could only assume were the famous Companions—scurried down the steps from the Cloud Disstrict, and upon seeing the closed gates, gave a loud cheer. Some of the guards looked a bit uneasy at the sight of the werewolf among them, but it was apparent that Whiterun needed all the help it was given at this point. Brutus snuffed in what sounded like disgust at the sight of particularly scantily-clad Companion, and turned away in a huff. Klyn shook his head; he must have been anthropomorphizing. Werewolves did not think as humans did.

The skilled Dunmer approached the ragtag group now. “Are you from the Legion?” she demanded.

“Yes, ma'am,” Rulendir answered with a slight bow. “Legate Rulendir and the Initiative, at your service. Forgive me, but you are . . . ?”

“Irileth, housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater,” the dark elf replied. “Dragonsreach has been breached, but the Jarl is safe in the Hall of the Dead. We must focus on defending the south front of the city, but I defer to your judgment, Legate.” She dipped her head respectfully.

“What's the plan, Rulendir?” Talia asked.

He answered immediately, such was his skill in strategy. “Irileth, take five men and hold this gate. Have your archers disperse the oncoming Stormcloak reinforcements from the parapets. Antonius, take another couple of men and raise the drawbridge. Defend it as best you can. Talia, Odah, and I will take back the barricades and fight on the front lines. Brutus, Klyn, and—I'm sorry, who are you?” He directed this at the inappropriately-dressed woman with red hair, the one who Brutus seemed to dislike.

“Aela the Huntress,” she replied in a strong, eager voice. “The Companions fight with you. Whiterun is our home, and we will not see it sacked.”

Rulendir nodded. “Brutus, Klyn,” he iterated, “take the Companions and hold the walls of Whiterun. The Stormcloaks will do their best to breach them. Root out the rest of the enemy within the city, and retake Dragonsreach if you are able.”

Irileth climbed up onto the top of a wall then, standing next to one of the burning braziers. “This is it, men!” she roared, addressing all the warriors and guards gathered at the entrance to Whiterun. “This is an important day for Whiterun and for the Empire. And for all of Skyrim. This is the day we deliver the final blow to the Stormcloak rebellion. What we do here today, we do for Skyrim and her people. By cutting out the disease of this rebellion, we will make this country whole again! Ready, now! Everyone, with me! For Whiterun! For the Empire!”

Everyone cheered, but their cries were cut short by an ear-splitting roar from above. A shadow passed over the whole of Whiterun as a black dragon darkened the sky—the very same dragon that had destroyed Helgen.

Alduin, the World-Eater. The best that now had Ulfric Stormcloak, and the entire rebellion, in its power.

“Odah, forget the front lines!” Rulendir yelled. “Deal with that.”

The dragon-man rumbled in reply. “Stand back,” he ordered the soldiers around him, and removed his mask.

There was a blinding white light, and then a great red dragon launched into the air from the street, cracking the cobblestones underneath its claws. Odah roared a challenge at his brother, and the two dragons began circling each other in the air, the former leading them away from the city so they could fight without completely destroying the city.

“To me!” Rulendir cried, and the warriors fell into position, clambering over the walls to fight the Stormcloaks swarming at the front.

Klyn ran alongside Aela as she ordered her fellow Companions to different positions to defend the walls of the city. Brutus sped ahead, sprinting on all fours, in the direction of Dragonsreach. Klyn and Aela split apart near the stairs to the great hall. She and her warriors would do a good job of defending the the city proper while Klyn and Brutus retook Dragonsreach.

There had been no sign of Ulfric this entire time, which bothered Klyn greatly. He hadn't exactly expected the Nord to lead the charge against the city, but he had at least thought that the Jarl would be seen yelling orders from some advantageous position.

Klyn stopped just outside the doors of the great hall to ready his bow, observing the battle's progression below. The drawbridge had been raised once again and the main gate was still secure. The Companions railed against the Stormcloaks, and he could see their enemies being pushed back just outside the barricades; Talia and Rulendir were successful in their efforts. Klyn picked off a few stray Stormcloaks running about the Cloud District and marketplace from his vantage point to help Aela, who had positioned herself by the Gildergreen and was fighting fiercely.

Even Odah was seeing success; Alduin's wing-beats were no longer as steady as the dragons Shouted at each other, blowing flames and frost and all manner of ancient dragon spells at each other. Eventually, Alduin roared one last time, his fury apparent, and took off, leaving the battle behind. The remaining Stormcloaks stopped fighting and either surrendered or fled, fearing for their lives now that the dragon on their side had retreated.

The Battle for Whiterun was over.

Klyn turned around and looked up at the great doors of the Jarl's hall. It was time to destroy the rebellion once and for all.

 


	17. Avenged

Second Seed, 4E 202

Dragonsreach was empty. Klyn's footsteps echoed in the great space. The hearth in front of the Jarl's throne glimmered with dying embers and even the court mage's quarters were deserted, where flasks and soul gems lay shattered on the floor. Klyn progressed warily in the uneasy silence, bow drawn and strung. He came to the tall wooden doors leading to the Great Porch without incident. He pushed the right door open just wide enough for himself to slip through.

Ulfric Stormcloak stood behind the set table at the end of the Porch. He had his hands clasped behind his back as he overlooked the north of Whiterun Hold. The man did not look defeated, even though he surely must have known how his forces had fled like cowards.

With cold precision, Klyn aimed his bow at the man who had caused him so much grief, but Ulfric turned around as if he sensed a fellow Nord's presence. His eyes no longer glowed with Alduin's possession. This was the Ulfric Stormcloak that had effectively ordered his brother's death. This was the Ulfric Stormcloak that Klyn would gladly put an end to. But despite his dragon ally abandoning him, Ulfric still opened his mouth to Shout Klyn down.

That was when Brutus leapt from one of the balconies to crash down onto Ulfric, shocking the Nord into stillness. He slashed at the traitor with his claws and pinned him against the floor as Klyn rushed forward to join his ally.

The werewolf was growling surprisingly coherent words at the Jarl of Windhelm when Klyn came within earshot: “. . . guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire.” Brutus paused and then triumphantly snarled, “It's over.”

Brutus was already shifting back into human form, his rage leaving him. Klyn motioned for him to let the Jarl go. He gave Klyn a curious look, but complied. As an Imperial, Klyn didn't expect Brutus to understand the hatred dictating his own actions.

Ulfric had killed his brother, and Klyn would avenge him if it was the last thing he did.

Ulfric groaned and sat up. He showed no sign of recognizing Klyn, and the archer wondered how many others he had enslaved with the powers of the World-Eater.

“I know what you must do,” he said graciously. “A pity the Dragonborn did not take part in this battle. It would have made for a better song.”

Klyn did not care for Ulfric's cynical words. He aimed an arrow at Ulfric's face, its tip not two feet away from his nose. “I think this'll be a pretty good song anyway,” he growled. “A ballad of vengeance.”

Ulfric gave him a questioning look, but Klyn was done explaining to this tyrant.

“This is for Bernt.” He let the arrow fly. It pierced Ulfric's right eye and slid through, striking deep into his brain. He died instantly, the light fading from his other eye.

The rebellion was over. Bernt was avenged.

~

The entirety of the Imperial allies who had fought in the great battle—save those who had bravely given their lives to the cause—gathered now on the steps of Dragonsreach to listen to Jarl Balgruuf's speech. He looked regal as ever as he addressed them, a fire burning in his eyes.

“Revel in your victory here today,” he cried, “even as the gods revel in your honor! They already sing of your valor and skill! The halls of Sovngarde are no doubt ringing with your praises! In defeating these Stormcloak traitors, you have proven the hollowness of their cause and the fullness of your hearts. The citizens of Whiterun are forever in your debt! Carry on, men, my gratitude and blessings go with you! For Whiterun! For the Empire!”

“For Whiterun! For the Empire!” the crowd chanted back, and erupted into shouts and cheers. They had won the battle. They had ended the war.

The Companions dispersed to their hall to celebrate, beckoning the Whiterun guards and those who had traveled from Riverwood and Rorikstead to follow them. Tonight would be anight for drinking and celebrating; the dead could be mourned tomorrow.

Klyn walked alone through the streets of Whiterun, past ruined buildings and Stormcloak corpses. He saw the twisted, burnt body of a civilian, and looked away. He had more reason to celebrate than anyone, but he wasn't in the mood; Antonius had congratulated him on the honor of slaying Ulfric Stormcloak himself. Klyn's name would be sung by bards around the land, remembering the valor of Hawkeye, the archer who reunited Skyrim.

He thought the hollow feeling in his chest would have been filled when his brother's murderer had breathed his last, but Ulfric's death had only made Klyn miss Bernt more.

He knelt in prayer at the shrine of Arkay in Whiterun's Hall of the Dead. _Be kind to my brother, Lord Arkay,_ he prayed. _Let his soul rest easy, now that his death was not in vain. Let him be remembered as the hero I knew him to be._

Klyn stood and stared at the shrine for a moment before placing one of his leftover arrows beneath it as an offering. He would meet Bernt again in Sovngarde.

He turned around to find Talia sitting on the steps, waiting for him. She gave him a sympathetic look. Revenge was not always the sweet meal it was made out to be.

“The others,” Klyn croaked. He cleared his throat, embarrassed, and tried again. “The others. Where are they?”

“Odah is gone to Alduin's realm,” Talia said, standing up. “And the rest await you. Whiterun can celebrate their victory now, but the Legion's is not yet assured.”

“Do we ride to Windhelm?”

“To Solitude. Galmar Stone-Fist is no match for the combined forces of Tullius and Rikke.” She rubbed his arm affectionately, her eyes kind and understanding. “It's over,” she said softly. “We can go home now.”

Home. Home used to be Bernt, or the Bards College. Then it was a series of cities: Bruma, the Imperial City, Riften. But now he knew what home really meant to him as he followed her out of the Hall of the Dead.

Yes, he could finally go home.

“So, what about that drink?”

Midyear, 4E 202

General Tullius addressed his Legionnaires in the training yard. They were assembled in perfect order: line after line of soldiers, dressed in red, black, and silver. Legate Rikke stood behind her general, hands folded behind her back.

Antonius, Rulendir, Brutus, Talia, and Klyn made up the first line of soldiers. They had almost singlehandedly secured Whiterun and destroyed the leader of the rebellion, and that act of valor would not be forgotten soon, despite their strange backgrounds. The Legion was now home to the richest of Imperials, a magical experiment, a cursed man, an assassin, and an archer-thief—and sometimes, a dragon.

Tullius looked over his men with pride in his eye. He had lost the other one in the Battle for Windhelm, but the loss did not diminish his spirit. The Initiative had been a gamble from the start, but it had paid off: he'd assembled the finest warriors of Skyrim and they had won him the civil war. Perhaps they were the key to ending the dragon plague, as well. He could only hope that the winged beasts wouldn't spread south into Cyrodiil.

But that was an issue for later. His Legionnaires looked at him with hope in their eyes, ready for his praise.

“The rebellion is over,” he started off. The Legionnaires silent and stone-still, respectfully awaiting his next words. “Ulfric Stormcloak is dead. His head will be sent to Cyrodiil, where it will adorn a spike on the walls of the Imperial City. Let this day be a final warning to all who would still call themselves Stormcloaks.

“We have turned Windhelm over to Brunwulf Free-Winter, an honorable and faithful man. Many of you will be remaining in Skyrim to aid the jarls in restoring order and stamping out any embers of rebellion that may still smolder here. In appreciation for your exemplary service, I am doubling your pay and compensation to the widows of your fallen comrades.” He paused briefly. “I am proud of all of you. All hail the Emperor. All hail his Legionnaires!”

The soldiers cheered and their lines blurred as they patted each other on the back and congratulated themselves on a war well-fought. The five warriors in front, though, slowly trickled through the crowd and disappeared from sight. They had more battles of their own to fight; Tullius knew that well enough.

He retreated back into Castle Dour for a drink in the strategy room. Rikke followed him.

“I hate giving speeches,” he grumbled, pouring himself a flagon of strong ale. He wasn't too enthused with the barbaric province Skyrim, but they knew how to brew, he had to admit.

“It wasn't so bad,” Rikke said, still standing behind him. She hesitated before speaking again. “So . . . what now?” she asked. “What happens to the Initiative?”

“They go their separate ways,” Tullius replied, downing the flagon in a few gulps.

He knew of the warriors' plans, somewhat. Brutus and Antonius had formed a quick friendship during the time they'd trained together, and were off to Antonius's private manor on Solstheim to further investigate the effects of Hircine's curse. Legate Rulendir would remain in Solitude with the Legion, ever the faithful soldier; he had demons of his own to conquer. And Klyn and Talia would return to Riften to continue on with their jobs as thief and assassin, working together on Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood missions and gathering intel for the Imperials.

“But there are still Stormcloaks holed up in caves and camps throughout the province,” Rikke insisted. “And Alduin is still on the prowl. What do we do when they come for us?”

Tullius gazed at the Jagged Crown sitting on the table and smiled. “When we need them, they'll be there. And should anything happen to the world while they're away, you can be sure of one thing.”

“What's that, sir?”

“They will be the ones to avenge it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da~~~ Look for my next crossover, Fallout 4 X Age of Ultron coming soon!


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